by David Blixt
“Too long, Gnaeus Domitius. Aglaus, that wine we were thinking of serving this evening. Is it decanted? Would you bring a cup for our guest?”
“Two cups,” said Corbulo at once. He grinned. “I'm not drinking alone. And as I recall, you could drink any man under the table.”
“What a thing to say, Gnaeus Domitius.”
“Oh, how pleasant it is to hear one's proper name. All the young people use cognomens these days. Every time I hear myself addressed as plain Corbulo I want to sink my teeth into their neck.”
“How vivid. But we were young once, too. And cognomens were all the rage then, as I recall.”
“True,” admitted Corbulo with a rueful smile. “I seem to have blinked and gotten old.”
The wine arrived, and they sat across the table sipping it. Corbulo said, “I'd compliment it, but I have a lousy palate for wine. I trust it is phenomenal.”
“Your trust is well founded,” said Caenis.
He laughed at that, sipping again. “You are everything I remember, Antonia Caenis. Over the last few months, I've heard men cataloging Vespasian's assets. Strangely, no one ever thinks to mention you.”
Caenis smiled. “Why Gnaeus Domitius, you'll have me blushing.”
“I presume I have you to thank for my command going to Titus Flavius.”
Caenis blinked. “I don't know what you mean?”
Corbulo locked eyes with her. “Yes, you do.”
“I assure you, I do not. You called it 'your command.' It was Rome's command, and Caesar's choice to bestow it where he would. His choice fell upon Titus Flavius.”
“With you whispering in Caesar's ear. No, please! I'm not here to fight, and your point is well taken. Hubris. That's me.”
Caenis frowned at him. “Hubris is false pride. I see nothing false in yours.”
He raised his cup. “That was kindly said, lady. And I appreciate it.”
They sat for a long moment, again sipping their wine, always a useful tool to ease a difficult conversation.
It was Caenis who next began. “You said you did not come to quarrel. May I ask why you did come?”
Corbulo rubbed his free hand over his balding pate. “I came to beg a favour. Two, really.”
“My dear Gnaeus Domitius, I will do anything I can to assist you.”
“Wait until you've heard the favours,” he warned. “First, you should know that I've been summoned to Greece.”
Her brow furrowed. The implications frightened her. But no, the war in Judea hadn't even started! Campaigning season was just now beginning. Nero couldn't have decided to replace Vespasian without at least giving him a chance to succeed!
But then, there was no knowing what Nero might do. Just last month he had been considering renaming the month of April 'Neroneus.' Despite the ample precedent of the months of Julius and Augustus, it was absurd on so many levels. Even if he was determined to have his own month, why April? He should have chosen May. May was Mercury's month, and there was no one more Mercurial than Nero.
Correctly reading her face, Corbulo smiled. “I doubt it is to my benefit. And I'm not going at once. I'm to fetch my brothers, first.”
“Your brothers?” That was even more surprising. “Let me see. They're serving as senior commanders in the legions in Germania, aren't they?”
“They are. So I won't be arriving in Greece for at least two months. Vespasian's war is safe. I hope he can win it this year, or at least do well enough to be prorogued into a continued command. But for myself, my first favour is this – I'd like you to tell me Nero's mood. Who is adhering to him these days? With whom must I contend?”
Understanding dawned. This might be Corbulo's moment to defend himself against a charge of treason. “He has many hangers-on. His wife whispers, but I don't think he listens much. The worst is Aulus Vitellius, who amuses Nero Caesar because of his combination of arrogance and sloth. But the man is a toady of the first degree.”
“That pudgy fool. Probably still angling for a command. And what of the official companions?”
“The worst, as you might guess, is Tigellinus. He makes certain Caesar's merest whims are catered to, without question or hesitation.”
“Can he be bribed?”
“I don't see how. What does he need of money? He has Nero's ear.”
“Threatened?”
“Again, he's in charge of the Praetorians. He can protect himself. And he's amoral. I cannot imagine a threat to any relation doing anything but hardening his resolve.”
Corbulo's face contorted. “'My mistress' privy parts are cleaner, Tigellinus, than your mouth.'” It was a quote from a servant of Nero's first wife Octavia, as she was tortured to implicate her mistress in some plot that would allow Nero a pretext for divorce. Tigellinus had been in charge of that torture, and the slave's choice words had become famous.
“Exactly.” Caenis had known the servant-girl in question, and had wept at her death.
“Well, at least I know what I'm up against. Vitellius and Tigellinus.” He pulled such a face as one gets when drinking sour wine.
Caenis reached across the table to lay her hand upon his. “I hope this means a return to your proper place on the cursus honorum.”
“Hope all you like, dear lady. I suspect it's quite the opposite. Oh, I don't think there's a new treason charge. If he had proof, he would have sent it to the Senate and had me thrown off the Tarpean Rock. The best I can hope is that he's worried my brothers are too chummy with their legions and wants us all under his eye. We can only wait and see. Which brings me to my second favour.”
“Anything, Gnaeus.”
Corbulo rubbed his hands together, over and over, as if he were washing them. “If anything should happen to me, or should I be gone overlong, would you please look after my girls?”
Caenis beamed. “Of course, Gnaeus! I'd be delighted. Such sweet creatures.”
“The older one is a mouse and the younger one is a cat, and they have perhaps half a brain between them,” growled Corbulo. “But they are my blood, and Domitia Longina especially took the brunt of my disgrace by marrying Plautius. I would like to see them happy.”
“Of course you would,” said Caenis. “And I'm sure the girls are both far more than you know. Fathers can be so critical of their children.”
“Really? I often think fathers wink at their brats' faults.”
“Well, that certainly isn't your failing, is it, Gnaeus Domitius?”
They laughed, and Corbulo spent the rest of the visit giving Caenis sound military advice that she was to pass on to Vespasian. “I was gratified that he took my advice and put young Trajan on his staff as a legate.”
“He values your experience and council, as do we all.”
“Not Nero,” said Corbulo sullenly.
“He'll come back around. He needs you, Gnaeus Domitius.”
“Not if Vespasian does well.”
“It's not an either-or. He needs quality generals, and there are too few. Who has the ability to general?”
“Among the young men, young Trajan. Perhaps Vespasian's son, Titus. Of those with experience – Galba. Suetonius Paulinus. Myself. Himself.” Corbulo shrugged. “That's the field.”
“You see? Twenty-odd legions, and four experienced generals. Nero needs you, Gnaeus Domitius. If he doesn't recognize that, he is a fool.”
Standing to go, Corbulo's answer was a laugh. He did not need to say anything more. They both knew what the laugh meant.
* * *
The visit with Corbulo had put her behind her rigourous schedule. So the moment he was out the door, Caenis had her shawl on and her litter dismissed. She could walk faster than they could carry her.
Her first port of call was to the house of Vespasian's brother, Old Sabinus. The only grace was that she was too powerful a figure for him to slam the door in her face. Thus Old Sabinus was forced to admit his brother's mistress across his doorstep.
But that did not mean he had to be polite. “Well, woman?”
Better than Well, whore. But only just. “Titus Flavius, what a pleasure to see you so well.”
“Yes, I'm holding Tartarus at bay. Why are you here? What does little brother want now?”
“Your brother did not send me. I am here on my own account, Titus Flavius. I just arrived from Greece, and I thought it only proper that I make my first call upon you.”
“Proper how?” asked Old Sabinus.
“We share a mutual interest,” replied Caenis.
“And what is that?” he pressed.
“The advancement of the Flavian family.”
“Ah, I see. My brother has married you, then.”
She kept her composure with ease. She had dealt with Caligula, after all. “No, I fear I am destined to remain a spinster for all my days.”
Old Sabinus pulled a face. Clearly he was again tempted to throw the word whore in her face. But he managed civility. “Then, alas, I don't see what business it is of yours.”
“Don't be obtuse, father,” said Sabinus, entering from the hall. “Without Caenis, the Flavian family would not have this war to brag on, and you would still be feeding an extra mouth.” He crossed to her and bussed her cheek. “This lady has done more for our family's fortunes than we've managed to in the last ten years. Welcome to our house, Antonia Caenis.”
Caenis felt a flush of unexpected gratitude. Sabinus had ample cause to be hostile. She had ruined his plans to join his uncle's war. Yet he was being utterly gracious. She returned the compliment in kind. “Thank you. I'm pleased so see you. We were so sorry you did not choose to return to Corinth after your visit to the Oracle. It was all anyone could talk about. Tell me, are there any pierced ankles in your future?”
Sabinus laughed dutifully, but at the mention of the Oracle his eyes had become veiled. “None, I'm afraid. Or if that was what she meant, I didn't understand her. Ah, you remember my son Clemens.”
“Indeed.” Caenis greeted the boy, who had come in at the mention of the Oracle. He was looking furtive. Interesting. Had he eavesdropped on his father's prophetic meeting? Or had Sabinus confided in him?
Sabinus clearly did not wish to discuss the prophecy. Still, there was no harm in asking. “May I enquire if there was anything that pertains to your uncle's war?”
Sabinus looked uncomfortable, Clemens attentive. Old Sabinus grunted. “He hasn't even told me what she said,” he groused.
“That is likely very wise,” said Caenis. “No one ever got in trouble by keeping their mouth firmly shut.”
Sabinus seemed to be weighing something. At last he said, “There was much that was unclear. But one part pertains, I think, to Uncle Vespasian. She implied that this war in Judea would last three years. Or else the crisis point would come then.” Sabinus looked directly at her. “I would like to be there when it does.”
Caenis nodded. He had named his price for revealing a hint of the prophecy. It was perfectly acceptable. “I shall write to my Titus Flavius at once.”
Old Sabinus was scowling. “You tell her, but not me…”
“I told you both,” said Sabinus.
“What else did she say?” demanded the old man.
“I'm not sure what it all meant.” The meaning was clear. Sabinus would say no more.
Growing red in anger, Old Sabinus pressed his lips together hard. “And you think my brother's whore has the power to dole out commands?”
Expecting the word, Caenis showed no reaction. But Sabinus turned pink. “She got Uncle Vespasian his command, didn't she?”
“And who did she sleep with to get it?” demanded Old Sabinus.
“Father, that's enough! Lady, I'm sorry—”
Caenis waved it away. “It's quite alright. I expected as much.”
“So if she had the power to make you a legate, why didn't she do it right off?”
“I told you, father. Nero is – wary of rivals.”
Old Sabinus scoffed at his son's circumspect answer. “Yes yes! You told me. Can't rise too high! Which is why, I suppose, I'm left out of all this. I was in Britannia, too. I've been consul. Maybe I should have taken a well-connected whore into my bed. Then I could be a general, too.”
Ah, there was the answer. Jealousy. Caenis tried to sound friendly, and keep both the scorn and the pity from her voice. “Titus Flavius, it was as much luck as anything. Proximity mattered. He could not have sent to Rome when he had able men already halfway there.”
“Excuses are like anuses, lady. Everyone has them. No one likes to hear them.”
That was enough. More than enough. And he knew it.
“Father!!” cried Sabinus, even as Clemens pulled such a face as would make an actor's mask proud. Caenis rose sharply to her feet. “I fear I am running late this afternoon. And I have taken up far too much of your time.”
“Agreed,” said Old Sabinus as his horrified son rose and escorted her out, apologizing the whole way.
Caenis exited the Flavius household with more mixed feelings than she had expected. Though hardly sad she hadn't been asked back, Caenis was disappointed that she would not be seeing more of that fine young Sabinus. And that interesting fellow, young Clemens! Through it all, the young man had sat listening, drinking in the debate. Not the arguments, but the nature of the people debating. It was clear in the way he bristled when his grandfather talked, frowned at his father's answers, and smiled whenever Caenis spoke. He was reacting not to the discussion, but the way the discussion was presented. Fascinating. A truly empathetic soul.
Yes, she very much wanted to get to know both father and son. And she had to hear more about this prophecy!
* * *
Caenis' second call was to the house of Cerialis, where Vespasian's grand-daughters shared the nursery. As with Domitian, poverty dictated that the children be reared in the care of others, a fact she knew galled Vespasian.
Her intention was to step into a role missing from the girls' life, that of avia – grandmother. After all, the only free adult in the household was a maiden aunt, charged with looking after the daughters of Titus and Cerialis, his late daughter's widower.
There was one obstacle, however, and her name was Phyllis. Broad of chest and wide of hip, she had been Domitian's childhood nurse. Now that he was grown, she had moved on to raising Vespasian's two grand-daughters. Yet she was still passionately devoted to her precious Domitian. All his loves were her loves. His hates, her hates.
Thus when Caenis came calling, Phyllis was curt. “I'm sorry, madam,” she said, frostily denying Caenis the title of domina. “The master does not like strangers in the house.”
But Caenis was more than equal to dealing with a Greek freedwoman. She produced a letter (written by Aglaus and sealed with the spare signet ring her love had entrusted to her) granting Caenis full rights to visit Vespasian's grand-daughters.
Thwarted, Phyllis trailed in after the intruder, ready to pounce at the least provocation.
The girls were playing in the peristyle garden at the back of the house. Kneeling on the grass, Caenis called them over. “Girls, I'm a friend to your grandfather. Since he's away being very brave with your fathers, he asked me to come and visit you. Now, let me guess.” She eyed the younger one, a golden-haired moppet with the happy expression of Titus. “You must be Julia.”
“Julia Titi,” corrected the child, all of three years old.
Caenis bowed her head gravely. “Forgive me. Julia Titi.” She turned to the older girl. “That makes you Flavia Domitilla.”
“Yes, lady.” Though less attractive than her cousin, with a thin face and her father's red hair, there was something alight in Flavia's expression that made her vibrantly alive.
“Do you sing songs?” asked Julia Titi.
Caenis doubted she knew any songs suitable for young ears. “A few. But I'd rather hear the songs you sing.”
“Do you tell stories?” asked Flavia Domitilla.
“All kinds.”
Flavia plopped down on her behind. “Tell us one.”<
br />
Unprepared, Caenis resorted to the first story that came to her mind – one of Aesop's fables, as related by Babrius. “A girl was carrying her pot of milk on her head when she started daydreaming. 'With the money I get for this milk I'll buy at least three hundred eggs. Those eggs will hatch, and I'll have three hundred chickens. I'll sell them at Saturnalia, when poultry will fetch the highest price, and with the money I'll buy a fancy new dress. Then I'll attend the Saturnalian revels, and when the young fellows see me they'll all propose marriage, but I'll toss my head and refuse them every one.' The foolish girl practiced tossing her head, forgetting all about the pot on her head. Down fell the milk-pot, which broke into a hundred pieces. All her fine schemes perished in a moment. So remember, girls – don't count your chickens before they're hatched.”
Excellent advice, thought Caenis to herself. For girls of all ages.
VII
PTOLMAIS, SYRIA
14 MAY 67 AD
Inside the large Roman camp, Vespasian noted a shadow in his doorway. There was only one man who had permission to enter without being announced. “Ave, mi filius.”
“Ave, pater.” Titus Flavius Vespasianus Junior was known to his friends and family by just his cognomen, Titus. He looked like his father, wide head and all. But where his father had a perpetual frown, Titus was forever smiling, all good-cheer and camaraderie.
“About time you returned. How is King Agrippa? Soothed, I trust.”
“Purring. But I need a vexillation from the Fifteenth for a little mission.”
Vespasian's eyebrows rose. A vexillation was a unit of indeterminate size, anything from a handful of legionaries to several cohorts. “How many men?”
Titus was casual. “A century, no more.”
“To what end?”
“An island cruise. Picking up a package on Paphos. Back in no time.”
Paphos. Where it was rumoured the disgraced Roman governor of Judea was hiding, along with all the gold he had extorted from his province. Did Titus mean to arrest Florus for trial? Or to hand him over to the king? Best not to ask any more direct questions. “Ah. Very well. I presume this is to mollify Agrippa.”