The Four Emperors

by David Blixt

  Late that afternoon, just as the sky darkened with rain, the dazed Nero was led out of the palace by his faithful steward Epaphroditus. At an inconspicuous private stable they were joined by two freedmen, Phaon and Neophytus. Spiros came too, restored to the garb of a boy. Befuddled, Nero suddenly thought that his little Sporos was even more beautiful this way. There was certainly a glow about him, one that made Nero need to kiss him. Spiros returned the kiss with fervor until Epaphroditus cleared his throat. It was time to go.

  Barefoot, hidden under an old riding cloak and with a scarf over his face, Nero was placed upon a horse and ridden away from Rome. The plan was to make for Phaon's villa to the northeast of Rome, between the via Nomentana and the via Saleria, a journey of only four miles.

  But the gods had little interest in Nero's plans. The skies opened and let fall a torrent such as they could never have imagined, full of lightning, thunder, and wind constantly shifting direction so that one moment they were clutching their horses, the next shielding their eyes. A waking nightmare.

  They met the occasional traveler braving the road. In spite of the rain and wind, all were curious for news of Nero, to which Nero himself would normally have invented cheerful and impossible lies. Instead he just listened as his freedmen made up some tale about his staying in Rome to weather both the real and metaphorical storm.

  At one point they had to pass a contingent of the city guard, called up by Old Sabinus to ensure order. Gaps in the howling rain allowed them to hear songs in praise of Galba, and bets on when and how Nero would die.

  Further along the road, several soldiers were hauling a corpse out of the way, the victim of a horse-fall in the storm. Whether it was the dead man or the bolt of lightning that frightened Nero's own mount, no one could say. But the scarf slipped from Nero's features just as they were illuminated. One soldier saw him and saluted instinctively. Nero covered his face and hurried on. They were not followed, but now their route was known.

  Finally, numbed and exhausted, they reached a lane that led to Phaon's villa. Abandoning their horses to the night, they followed a track covered with brambles and tall reeds to the rear wall of the house – they eschewed the front door which might alert the neighbors that the house was occupied. But that meant digging a hole under the rear wall, for it was far too slick to scale.

  In an attempt at solicitousness, Phaon pointed and said in Nero's ear, “Caesar, please, lie down under a cloak in that sandy pit over there, until we're through.”

  Nero recoiled. “I will not lie in a grave before I am dead!” He half believed they would fill the pit in, burying him alive. Yet he did stoop to drink some rain-water from a puddle. He was used to drinking water that had been boiled and then chilled, to remove any imperfections. Yet now he said, “This is the purest water Nero ever tasted.”

  They finally worked loose some bricks. Crawling through the gap in the wall, they entered Phaon's country home. Nero looked about at the small but well-appointed villa. “This is a nice place, Phaon. Though a little gaudy, don't you think?”

  They convinced him to go to bed, though not to sleep. He refused bread, but they got him to drink a little more water.

  It was Spiros who at last took Nero's hands and spoke the truth. “Domine – it is time to die. If only to escape the insults that must come with the dawn.”

  Sighing deeply, Nero nodded. He pointed at Epaphroditus, Phaon, and Neophytus. “You three, go dig a grave for me. Then find some water to wash my body, and wood to burn it.” While the three freedmen were fulfilling these tasks, Nero held Spiros' hands in his, weeping and repeating, “O Poppaea, what an artist in me dies! What an artist dies here! What an artist the world is losing!”

  Returning from gathering wood, Epaphroditus informed Nero that a letter had come for Phaon, detailing the events in the city. “The Senate has declared Galba the new Princeps. You are now – hostis.”

  “Hostis,” replied Nero with a bleak chuckle. “An enemy of the state, doomed to be led naked through the streets on a yoke, beaten with rods, and thrown from the Tarpean Rock. Better by far that I choose my own death.”

  With sudden urgency, he drew both the daggers he had brought with him, and his four companions thought he might stab himself in that moment. But instead Nero paused to test both daggers for sharpness. Unable to choose between them, he turned to the four men. “I would feel better about dying if I had some example to follow. Could one of you kill yourself, that I might see how best to do it?”

  As one they demurred. Spiros said, “Domine, you are a leader, not a follower.”

  Nero laughed, scrubbing a hand across his face. “But I am afraid! Can a god be afraid of death?” He began slapping himself about the head. “This isn't like you! Wake up, Nero! Be worthy! An artist is able to paint on any surface, make music with any simple instrument! But now, in your ultimate moment, inspiration eludes you? No! Be inspired.” He laughed. “Inspiration. The act of breathing. I am about to end my inspiration forever.”

  There came the pounding of hoofbeats outside the villa, then shouting. “Domine, we are found!” cried Spiros. “Now, it must be now!”

  “ 'The thunder of a fast-moving horse is beating against my ears!' ” cried Nero, quoting the Iliad. Kissing Spiros on the mouth, he ordered Epaphroditus hold his sword while he fell on it.

  Nero did not aim the blade for his heart, as a soldier might. His aim was to silence his most prized gift, his most priceless possession – his singing voice. Thus he brought himself down upon the blade throat-first.

  It was badly done. He flinched at the ultimate moment, so the blade did not go cleanly through, but ripped a jagged line across one side of his throat. His eyes widened in surprise at the pain, and he opened his mouth to comment on it, but had to gasp for air, his throat working to swallow the blood that poured into his gullet. No matter how much he swallowed, there was more blood to fill it. He sank to his knees, confusedly trying to fill his lungs with air, which had been so easy just moments before.

  As the soldiers burst into the villa to arrest him, they were greeted by the sight of their former master on his knees, spouting frothy pink blood from his mouth and crimson ichor from his neck. Seeing Epaphroditus with a bloody-tipped sword, they disarmed him, then stood stupidly confused and impotent. One soldier knelt to stop the torrent of blood, only to be waved away.

  “Too late,” gasped Nero, with a smile from his whitening lips. Little bubbles of aspiration formed as he tried to utter one last perfect quote. Inspiration had struck at last, the perfect dying utterance.

  Spiros hustled over, bending an ear to his husband's lips, stroking that long dark hair as tenderly as any wife. Wetting his lips with his own blood, Nero worked desperately to croak out the one Greek word that would speak volumes to posterity. The very phrase.

  A copper veil slid over his eyes. The soul departed, leaving behind only a thirty year-old husk.

  Huddled in a corner, Phaon asked, “What did he say?”

  “I don't know,” replied Spiros, wiping a god's blood from his hands. “I couldn't hear.”

  But it was a lie. The Greek youth had heard all too clearly. The last of the true Caesars had taken inspiration from his favourite general's dying word. A word Spiros would take to his grave. A final measure of revenge? Or a sign of devotion, of respect? Even, of love?

  So died Nero Caesar, Imperator of Rome, god of Broken Dreams, and Harbinger of Chaos.

  Part Four

  The God of Chaos

  “THE DAY WE FEAR AS OUR LAST IS BUT THE BIRTHDAY OF ETERNITY.”

  - SENECA

  XVI

  NARBO, HISPANIA

  12 AUGUSTUS 68 AD

  News of Nero's death was greeted with jubilation. Every Roman from Ordo Equester to the Head Count donned a cap of liberty as if the whole nation were slaves undergoing the freeing ceremony in Feronia's temple.

  Greeks mourned the death of an artist, and prayed that the new Caesar would honour Nero's remittance of all their ta
xes. In Hispania, all looked forward to special treatment under Galba, who had been a stern but good governor for the last eight years. Alexandria, hearing they had been Nero's intended refuge, released a collective sigh of relief that they had been spared that particular honour.

  The rest of the world simply shrugged, waiting to see what kind of Caesar this Galba would be. A Caesar with not a drop of Julian blood, perhaps Galba would not suffer the madness that had characterized the Julio-Claudians. Free of the cursed blood of Augustus and Antony, Galba was something new. No one knew what to expect.

  That included the men marching with him. Though hailed by his own men as Caesar Imperator, the aged patrician had not yet employed either title. Yet he seemed utterly certain of his own destiny. Asked if he expected any senatorial opposition, he shook his head. “I'm the only sensible choice. Anyone who says otherwise is a fool or a traitor.” He spoke in a gruff and clipped fashion, with none of the hesitation or pensiveness one might expect in someone his age.

  But then, he was in remarkable shape for having seen seventy-three years. Every morning he performed seventy-six push-ups – he'd once been told that Corbulo did seventy-five each dawn, and he was determined to do one more than the famous general.

  No, age showed only in the thin wisps of hair still on his head, in the liver spots on his hands and face, and in the deep folds that ran from his eyes down across his cheeks to the wattle under his chin. Also in his utter inability to suffer fools.

  Which made his companions irksome to him. Titus Vinius he counted as a friend, but only because the man was a fellow senatorial soldier. The man's personal life was a continuous wreck, his spending profligate, and his affairs had once caused him to be sentenced to die by Caligula, only to be reprieved when Little Boots himself departed this life on the end of a stout Roman sword.

  Yet, as the legate in charge of the legion stationed in Tarraconensis, Vinius had proved industrious and worthy. And he carried himself as a Roman man should.

  Which was a complete contrast to Marcus Salvius Otho. A naturally unimpressive figure of middle height, bandy legs and splayed feet, his years in Hispania had rendered him fit, trim, and sun-dyed brown. But this manly build was diluted by a curled wig, perfume, and stibium about the eyes. It was rumored that he spent hours each day before a mirror, examining his every curve and lineament. He was all too reminiscent of Nero, which was no wonder, as they had been boyhood friends, only falling out over Poppaea Sabina. Otho had been meant only to marry her to keep her safe for Nero, not fall in love with her himself. Hence his exile to Further Hispania.

  The instant news of Nero's death arrived, Otho had appeared. He'd already sent vague overtures of aid to Galba, but now he came himself, at the head of the few soldiers he owned – Nero had sent him to a province notably without a standing legion.

  From the moment he entered Galba's company, Otho had been of the greatest good cheer, pouring honey in the new Caesar's ear, affecting a familiarity that was unwelcome to the aged man suddenly made ruler of the world.

  What was maddening was Otho's competency. Unlike Nero, Otho liked the art of organization and giving orders. The few times he'd taken to the field, reports spoke highly of his bravery. He could have been a man after Galba's own heart, had he a speck of common sense about his comportment. A man simply did not wear scent, or a wig, or sandals that raised the heel, creating a mincing gait. Ecastor, what had become of the Roman man?

  Riding with his knee curled around the saddle horn, back spear-straight, head bare under the summer sun, Galba tried to present the example of what he expected from his men. There was much to do.

  Yet they were taking their time in getting to Rome. Already it was the middle of Augustus. Nero had been dead nearly two months, yet they were just now leaving the country. And Galba had decided to trace the coastline north as they exited Hispania. In three weeks of riding, they had made it no further than Narbo. He might easily have sailed to Rome by this time. There were certainly voices urging that speed. Several senators had come in a tearing hurry to beg him take wing and fly to Rome with undue haste. They feared what might happen if he delayed. But prudence dictated that he arrive with his full army. Besides, the delay would allow all the boils to come to a head.

  Thinking of one in particular, he said, “What news of Verginius?”

  It was Titus Vinius who answered. “He's said that it's up to the Senate and People of Rome to choose a Princeps, and they have. He's gotten the German legions with him to swear loyalty to you.”

  “Though with difficulty,” added Otho.

  “Infants.” Galba was not interested in the grievances of soldiers he'd once commanded. That was twenty years past, and they clearly still lacked the discipline he'd tried to instill in them. Discipline. That's what made Rome great. That's what they had to return to. “We'll need a new commander for the German legions. And what's the latest from Africa, Caecina?”

  A tall young man cantered his mount closer to the general. Galba's quaestor, Aulus Caecina Alienus, answered smartly. “Clodius Macer has declared himself Caesar and Princeps, and is trying to find transport for his legion.”

  “He has a legion?” That was worrying. The Third Augusta was in Africa, a solid veteran legion.

  Riding on Galba's other side, Otho actually giggled. “None would join him, so he's raised one. Calls it the First Macriana Liberatrix. Guess whose idea that name was!”

  “I don't like guessing games, Marcus Salvius. Just tell me.”

  “Why, Calvia Crispinilla, of course! Nero's head harlot. She left Rome when you declared yourself and went to her lover in Africa to put him up in your stead. I suppose she planned to watch you and Nero waste each other, then have him slip in.”

  “Bitch. What of the grain?”

  Otho didn't want to answer, so he left it to Titus Vinius. “That's the burr under the saddle, Caesar. He's stopped all the grain ships heading for Italia.”

  Another man might have cursed. Instead Galba said, “Find someone to kill him. Officially. He's a traitor. Have his citizenship removed and crucify him. And anyone else who dares declare himself Caesar.” Already he had performed a rear-guard action, ordering the deaths of two prominent Romans in Hispania who openly opposed him. Just as he'd sent orders for certain Roman men to fall on their swords – men like Publius Petronius Turilianus, Rome's curator of aqueducts, who had soldiered for Nero in Britannia. Two dozen such men had already received the order, with a note explaining that if they obeyed, their children would be allowed to inherit their wealth.

  Galba refused to go the way of the Divine Caesar, pardoning men so they might attack him. All opposition had the be quelled, and active prevention was superior to rearguard cures. To this end he had formed his own Praetorian Guard, under the command of his business manager, a knight called Cornelius Laco. Galba was determined not to be seduced by power as Nero had. He would not allow sycophants to have access to his person. Only men he trusted, men he knew before his elevation. That would ensure both his purity of spirit, and his safety.

  Unasked, Otho offered an opinion. “One thing that might help, Servius Sulpicius, is an heir.”

  Galba frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Part of the trouble with Nero was his lack of an heir. Three wives – well, wives capable of child-bearing – and just one sickly daughter dead before she was weaned. I don't think discontent could have been so easily sewn had he made his successor clear.”

  Galba nodded. Had Nero ever declared an heir, this revolt could not have happened. At least, not Galba's part in it. It was the very lack of an heir that allowed men to nominate themselves – or rather, allow their soldiers to nominate them. It was, in fact, a startlingly good suggestion. Galba turned a thoughtful eye upon Otho. “So if I declare an heir…”

  “…you'll make everything far more certain in the eyes of the people, and therefore more secure for yourself. Forgive me, but at your age, everyone will be wondering if we'll go through this in a year or two. Not
when they see you, of course! You're the picture of health. But for those not lucky enough to be in your presence, an heir would ease their minds. And if you pick a senator, a man known to the knights and the First Class, they'll see you mean to keep tradition at the fore. A pity neither of your sons survived. It means whoever you choose, you will have to adopt him. But that, too, is quite traditional.”

  Galba's lips curled slightly. “You seem to have thought this through.”

  Otho beamed back a sunny smile. “Merely trying to be of service to the Pater Patriae. For you are now father to us all.”

  Otho seemed expectant, but Galba was distracted. In the ranks of the legion they were passing, the one he had formed the moment he announced his intent to become Princeps, there was a soldier who was the very model for what Galba looked for in a man. Hair cut short, neck thick, well muscled, tan. He had smallish ears and a jutting jaw that made Galba stir in his saddle.

  He looked away. Now that he was Caesar, that part of himself he had to put aside. He had male slaves for that sort of thing. It was why he had been willing to spend so much of his life in the provinces. Nero was a deviant, as Caligula had been before him. Galba felt a proper Roman shame at his base, unnatural desires. It was part of what made him so tough as a commander – he had never, never made advances upon a Roman soldier. But he could not stop the quickening of his blood whenever he saw a certain type of legionary. If he could not have them, he would engage with them the only way he could, through discipline. Perhaps if he punished them hard enough, it would discipline his desires as well.