by David Blixt
Titus appeared embarrassed. “Actually, the request comes from Agrippa's sister, the queen.”
Vespasian shook his head. “These foreign potentates. Brother-sister king-queen. It's unnatural.”
Titus rolled his eyes. “They're not married, father. Her first husband was a good man, a stout Hebrew with unbreakable ties to Rome. I met his brother in Alexandria while I was picking up the legions. Tiberius Julius Alexander, the current governor of Aegypt. And both Agrippa and his sister were raised in Rome. Their loyalty is unimpeachable.”
A surprisingly lengthy answer, and a defensive one. Vespasian began to worry – he had heard about the Judean queen. “Their loyalty may be. But her fidelity is another matter.” Titus flushed, proving his father's fears correct. “Don't get involved in their lives, son. Think of Mark Antony and be warned. Roman soldiers and queens are a poisonous mix.”
The twenty-eight year old Titus cleared his throat. “I just came to see if you had news, pater. I heard there was a post from Rome.”
After a moment of beady staring, Vespasian shrugged his wide shoulders, accepting the change in topic. “Nothing of great import. Though I've had a letter from Caenis.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. She's spoken to your cousin Sabinus about his encounter with the Oracle.”
From idle curiosity, Titus became vibrantly interested. “Oh-ho! And what did she say?”
“The Oracle? Sabinus is being very close. But he did say one thing. According to the Pythia, this war will last at least three years.”
Titus frowned. “How is that possible? We'll have Galilee by the end of this season, and next year we'll take Jerusalem.”
Again Vespasian shrugged. “Who can argue with Apollo's priestess? He admits it's possible that he's misinterpreting. Caenis wrote the day after their interview on the Vinalia. Perhaps she can get more out of him over the summer. He's made his price clear.”
“Let me guess. A posting to this war.”
“Indeed. It's a shame everyone's working out so well. Trajan is an excellent commander, Sextus is doing well with the Fifth. Even your brother-in-law Cerialis is proving himself.”
Titus chuckled. “I take it that if anyone is to be replaced, it's me?”
Vespasian allowed himself a smile. “Edepol, no! Thankfully you're doing very well with the Fifteenth. Perhaps he can replace Placidus.”
Gnaeus Tertullus Placidus had command of the cavalry, and was prone to rash acts, though so far nothing egregious. “The men like him, for all his imprudence.”
“Well, we'll find a post for him.”
“Good. I'm dying to hear what the Pythia said.” Titus grew sly. “Odd, isn't it?”
“What?”
“If she was going to summon a member of the family, you'd think it would be Domitian.”
“Why?”
Titus' smile became crooked. “I don't know. He seems the sort to have prophecies made about him.”
Vespasian looked grim. “Let's hope not. Nero is already envious of Sabinus being summoned. I shudder to think what would happen if Domitian was called to Delphi.”
* * *
DELPHI, GREECE
As it happened, Domitian was at that very moment in Delphi, experiencing Greek culture to the fullest. The whole of fashionable Rome had descended upon the oracular olympic city to partake in Nero's games. Ever since he had arrived, Caesar had become increasingly besotted with all things Greek. From music to dress, from drink to hair-style, from poetry to love-making, Greek was the new cutting edge. Everything old was new again.
Not that Greece had fallen out of favour. Ever since it came under Rome's dominion, the cradle of culture had influenced Roman life. As the poet Horace once put it, Captured Greece has taken captive the savage victor and brought arts to rustic Latium. The mark of an educated man was to recite the classics in Greek, to know the forms of rhetoric and philosophy espoused by ancient Greeks. Plato and Aristotle, Homer and Hesiod – these writers had always shaped the way men thought, were still the ideals men aspired to. Greek gods were everywhere, as was Greek architecture and sculpture.
But there had grown a curious backlash among those who adopted Greek-style thinking – a disdain for the Greeks themselves. Greek religious practices were often thought impure and cynical, Greek merchants were both lazy and greedy, and Greek love was both a joke and a slur. It was good to be thought Hellenistic, and a horrible insult to be called Greek.
Yet here was one man whose deepest desire was to be Greek, and his will was reshaping the world.
Dressed in a kilted tunic, the Divine Nero Caesar made a show of flexing, lunging, and running in place before a crowd of amazed (and secretly amused) Greeks. From the first blush of springtime, Nero had made it his goal to compete in every game from Athens to Apollonia, including next month's games at Olympia. Delphi was but a minor stop in his tour, where Nero would race on foot in the stadium, throw the javelin, and wrestle with the best the city had to offer.
As on the rest of his Greek tour, the Roman Princeps brought with him a lavish retinue of senators, knights, foreign kings and potentates, and a thousand hangers-on – his Augustiani. Among them was his Praetorian Prefect, Gaius Nymphidius Sabinus, co-commander of the Princeps' bodyguard. Close at hand was Epaphroditus, the rich Greek freedman who could not give up being so close to the sun. Leaning against the pillar nearest the exit was Lucius Junius Caesennius Paetus, a kinsman of Vespasian who cared only for himself. And applauding Caesar's every move was Calvia Crispinilla, the noblewoman who loved Nero's excesses more than anyone. These in addition to the athletes, musicians, poets, and actors who traipsed along at the head of his comet, multitudinous Ganymedes to his Jove.
Among them too was Domitian, Nero's hostage for Vespasian's loyal service.
Thank you, pater. I will not forget this. I will not forget that you took big brother Titus to your war. I will not forget that you sacrificed me for that oaf's sake, and yours. Nor will I forget that you heeded that bitch Caenis at my expense.
He glanced around at the frenzied preparations. Foolishly, Delphi had already held this year's games, and were now forced to repeat their competitions. No one needed to consult the Oracle to know the identity of the eventual victor. Nero's collection of trophies, torques, and crowns had to be transported by wagon.
None of that acquired glory could cheer the god this day. Having arrived at Delphi, he naturally expected to have an immediate audience with the Pythia. When no summons came, he acted as the humble did when they wished an audience – he sent the animal for sacrifice. This was galling, as he knew Sabinus had not been forced to offer anything for his hearing.
As yet there was no answer from the Oracle. So there was nothing for it but to press on with the day's contests. Hence the stretching here in the gymnasium of Delphi, a half mile from the Sacred Way. The gymnasium was a series of buildings, containing a pool and baths on the lower floor that were said to have magical powers, imparting the ability to communicate with Apollo. Domitian planned to bathe later. He hoped the divine water would cleanse him. Remove his shame.
As the Princeps stretched, angrily touching his toes as he lunged, one man braved his temper – Aulus Vitellius. He was not dressed to compete, and Domitian doubted the man was capable of anything more than a mild trot. Nero often joked that the senator's ponderous belly would ground him like an upended tortoise in a race.
But if Vitellius had to endure a thousand slights to wriggle closer to the curule throne, it was a price he was clearly willing to pay. And it had worked, after a fashion. During this trip Vitellius had replaced Nero's faithful steward Epaphroditus as purveyor of gossipy reports from all over the known world.
Hoping to improve the Princeps' mood, Vitellius cleared his throat. “Would the divine Caesar care to hear today's news from the provinces?”
Nero grunted, then switched which leg was forward in his lunge. “You should exercise instead, Aulus. You want to be a general, but the only thing you're fit to be
on a battlefield is catapult ammunition.”
“I am not blessed with Caesar's energy,” answered Vitellius as Nero leaned over his left leg, working to lengthen his right hamstring.
“You're much too fat to be such an ass-sponger, Aulus. Your chins have chins. Do you even fit in a latrine?”
“I do not, Caesar. I defecate in the public pools, where the slaves have to clean up after me.”
Nero barked out a laugh. “Very well. What is going on in my world?”
“Well, speaking of shit, it seems Verginius is in it at the moment. Your governor of Upper Germania is reportedly having some difficulty with the Roxolani. He's begging for an additional legion.”
Nero snorted. “He has four already! Feh. Tigellinus! Find Verginius another legion from somewhere.” He looked around. “Where is Tigellinus?”
Nymphidius stepped forward in his fellow Prefect's place. “Gaius Ofonius has gone to Corinth, Caesar, as you commanded.”
Nero's gaze darkened. “Ah. Yes. Well, Nymphidius, see it taken care of. Lucusta, I'm ready for my tonic.”
A woman in her middle thirties hustled forward with a frothy brew that Nero drank deeply. This woman was rumoured to have poisoned Nero's adoptive father, Claudius Caesar, at the behest of Nero's mother. Having been accused of another poisoning a year later, Nero pardoned her in exchange for a venom to murder his brother Britannicus. Now she traveled with him, concocting potions and cordials for him from elements as varied as strawberries and elephant testicles.
“Ahhh!” said Nero, tossing the goblet aside. As Lucusta wiped his mouth with a napkin, he said, “Carry on, Aulus.”
Vitellius carried on. “Let's see. Vindex reports that Gaul is quiet. Old Galba has things humming in Nearer Hispania, as per usual. And things in Lusitania are fine as well.”
Vitellius had tried to hurry past this last domain. Yet at the mention of Lusitania, Nero's exercises became less vigorous, his eyes misted. The governor of Spanish Lusitania was Marcus Salvius Otho, formerly Nero's fast friend.
Once upon a time they had rambled the streets of Rome after dark, robbing shops and homes, assaulting women, beating men, all before retuning to the palace to bathe their wounds and count their spoils. Ah, the carefree days of youth!
But he and Otho had fallen out over Poppaea, Nero's late wife. Madly in love with her, Nero was married already, so he'd ordered his best friend to marry Poppaea to keep her safe until Caesar could obtain a divorce. Nothing more natural.
Unfortunately, Otho had then committed the unpardonable sin of falling in love with his new wife. When Nero demanded Poppaea for himself, Otho refused to divorce her. Sadly for the infatuated husband, Poppaea had preferred a Caesar to a senator. Otho found himself both divorced and given command of Further Hispania, a promotion that amounted to honoured exile.
Now Poppaea was dead, a death Nero blamed on the gods, for all that it was his own foot that struck her pregnant belly. Yet Nero had not recalled his former friend. Perhaps just the sight of Otho would stir up too much emotion in a Caesar devoted to indulging his feelings. Everyone feared what a truly distraught Nero might do.
Noting Caesar's burgeoning tears, Vitellius briskly carried on to the only real news he had. “In the East, everything is stable, with the obvious exception of Judea, where the Old Mule has written to say he's beginning his campaign.”
Sniffling, Nero rose to the bait. “Jerusalem?”
“No, Galilee. He says he plans to sweep them all into the city, then crush them when they're all in one place.”
“Hm. Sound like he's dithering.”
Though Vitellius did not want to commit himself verbally, he allowed himself a laugh. “Be that as it may, there is some good news, Caesar. He's sending the first wave of slaves. Six thousand wonderfully strong men, and twice as many women.”
“Excellent! Do you hear, Domitian?” called Nero, his voice echoing around the walls of the gymnasium as he headed for the exit. “Your father serves us well. If slowly.”
As they moved into the open air outside, Domitian stepped out from the shade of a nearby column. “He does only one thing swiftly, Caesar, and that due to age.” Vitellius roared while Nero laughed so hard he nearly fell over. Nothing tickled Caesar more than when Domitian abused his father.
Domitian did not find it difficult to oblige. His father had given him to Nero. As a gift. For Nero to do with as he pleased. And Nero's pleasures knew no bounds. Not of decency, of invention, of empathy.
Not that Nero loved men. He was not one of those who found attraction in his own sex. But he loved power. He loved to degrade those about him. Worst of all, he loved cruel humour. So while Domitian's father was dominating Judea, Nero took pleasure in dominating Domitian.
The worst was there was no telling when the mood would strike. Thus the past six months had been like living on a vibrating string. Six months of Caesar's mercurial desires, of humiliations both great and small, of knowing snickers and disgusted glances. Roman society did not look down on a man who played the man's part. But a man who played the woman's role was despised.
Everyone knew what was happening, yet no one intervened. Too many feared it happening to them. After all, it was said that just before engineering his death, Nero had buggered his own brother just to display his power. Domitian was but one of many noble youths with whom Nero desired to show his dominance, his skill, his endurance. Caesar was the ruler of the world. Who could gainsay him?
Domitian did not blame Nero. One did not blame the serpent for striking. No, Domitian's venom was reserved for his father, who had offered Domitian to the serpent as a plaything.
So far the son's only revenge was a petty one, belittling Vespasian for all the world to hear. The more abuse he heaped on his father, the more he pleased Nero without any physical contact. So Domitian followed Caesar past a grove of watchers beneath an olive tree, fully intending to tell some new tale at his father's expense.
The words never reached the air. Mid-laugh, Nero took in a sudden, ragged, choking breath. Before anyone could come to his aid, he was running into the crowd. Greeks scattered before the wild-eyed ruler of the world.
Stopping before a young shepherd lad of perhaps fifteen years, Nero clutched the boy's shoulders and stared. “Jupiter! Do you see it, Aulus? Tell me you see it?”
Failing to observe whatever it was, Vitellius said carefully, “He's a very comely boy.”
“Exactly!” cried Nero, wonder in his voice. “He looks just like her!”
With more information now to guide him, Vitellius examined the youth again. Domitian did the same. Yes, there was a faint – faint! – resemblance to Nero's late wife Poppaea, she of the wicked temper and deep grudges.
Vitellius said, “What's your name, boy?”
“S-S-Spiros, sir.”
“Not anymore!” Kneeling before the boy, Nero wept openly. “O, this is a gift from my fellow gods! How I have missed her! How many hours have I spent repenting that kick, that one simple kick!” He took the boy's face in his hands. “But now I have you back, meum mel! Now I have you, but stronger, so you will withstand the plague of my tempers! My Poppaea, my darling Poppaea Sabina, in the body of a boy! Marvelous! O, thank Zeus, or whatever Greek god planted you here for me to find!” Nero lunged his face forward and kissed the boy passionately, savagely, hungrily. The boy began to squirm, but Nero's arms wrapped around him tightly as the horrified crowd watched in amazement.
Emerging from the kiss, Nero rounded on Vitellius. “Let the word be spread! The games are now in honour of my wife! Today is a day of celebration! I have my love returned to me!”
Domitian turned to gaze at Statilia Messalina, Caesar's latest wife, in whose honour he was celebrating all these successive games. She was ashen. If his former mistress had any doubt that she was but a place-holder for the dead Poppaea, those doubts had vanished. He preferred a boy to her, just because that boy looked a little like Poppaea.
But was he serious? He was laughing as he kissed the
boy again. Was it truly joy? Or a monstrous jest? No one knew, and no one could ask. Caesar had proclaimed this boy the reborn Poppaea. Who could gainsay him?
Domitian watched Caesar depart with Spiros in his arms, awash in a horrid swamp of feelings. He would have expected relief, but instead he felt an unfathomable stab of jealousy. It would have been laughable if not so tragic. Having been initiated into Nero's frenzied world, he had learned to endure, to overcome his revulsion. Like Statilia, he had just begun to accept his fate.
Only to be cast aside once more.
VIII
CORINTH, GREECE
Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo watched the Greek mainland approach him from the bow of the forty-oar cargo ship he'd hired to ferry him and his brothers from Ravenna to answer to Nero's summons.
They had crossed the Adriatic Sea and sailed down the coast of Greece, past Salonae, wending through the various isles that dotted the waters before entering the deep inlet leading to Corinth.
Two days ago, just before entering that inlet, they had stopped at Ithaca – mostly because Corbulo had never seen it. A small island, it was barely fifteen miles long and much narrower in width. Landing at Kalamos on the northernmost end of the isle, Corbulo told his brothers Marcus and Lucius, “Sail round to the port at Phorcys. I'll meet you there.” With that, he set off across the bright beach under the warm spring sun.
He did not know what moved him to walk the isle end to end. He mused about sea-sickness – I'm a soldier, not a sailor. But it wasn't true. It was an unusual moment of fancy, of superstition and emotion. He wanted to walk in the footsteps of one of the ancients, of the undisputed hero who was nevertheless a flawed and fallible man. A king who was a man first, ruler afterward. The great Odysseus.
First Corbulo climbed Pelikata, overlooking Polis Bay. Then he followed the path down into the bay itself and paid a coin to visit the grotto sanctuary of the Nymphs, long since abandoned. He did not pray, but stood breathing in the scents, trying to sense a magic long since vanished from the world.