by David Blixt
The fight raged on and on, even as servants barricaded the doors and doused the lamps. Seth was armed with a sword, and lingered close to the kitchens, where Abigail and Perel laboured to produce a meal they knew would never be eaten.
Softly, so that the cook did not hear, Perel said, “We must send to Linus and cancel tonight's meeting.”
Abigail shook her head slightly. “No need. He is no fool. We should all stay indoors until this is settled.”
“And pray that Otho is more favourable to Jews than his friend Nero.”
Abigail nodded, but did not reply. To her, the chaos in Rome was divine retribution from the Lord. Rome had declared war on Judea, slaughtered Hebrews here at home, blamed His chosen people for their own follies. She hoped this was a sign that He was angry, and had turned a plague upon the Romans as He had upon the Aegyptians of old. But this plague was more ingenious than frogs or locusts, or even the death of the first-borns. This plague was of Rome's own making. The price of pride, ambition, and arrogance. These Romans were reaping what they had sown, a harvest of destruction and uncertainty. Perhaps they would emerge wiser, kinder, more humble. If not, perhaps they would be destroyed.
Whatever happened, she prayed that Yahweh would preserve His children through it all.
A door slammed somewhere, and Abigail realized that the screaming had ceased. The fight was over. Soon Seth was summoned to join their master's men as a bodyguard. Domitia had prevailed, Plautius was off to attend Otho Caesar.
Abigail thought how fierce Domitia was, how determined to get her way. While she realized that the girl was correct in practical terms, she lamented her master's weakness. Because he, too, was correct. In going to pay homage to Otho, he was shedding his own honour like a snake sloughed his skin.
But that was the way with these Romans. They had no fixed beliefs, no moral guide. It had brought them great power, but not the wisdom to wield it. Like the priests of Judea who had condemned her beloved Symeon time and again, they did not possess the granite of spirit to hew to their beliefs. And without that, they were doomed to this kind of madness. They did not understand the importance of sacrifice. Only of murder.
* * *
“Nero Otho! Nero Otho!”
The cry was everywhere as the Flavians trooped back to Apollo's temple. Six months of Galba had everyone remembering Nero fondly. Already the busts were restored and cults to the divine Nero were doing brisk business.
Sabinus worried that Otho Caesar would try to live up to Nero's high-living ways. He saw several of the statues of Poppaea among those newly set upon plinths. That was natural, as Otho's most famous act was his refusal to divorce his wife. But if Otho had sense, he would refrain from following too closely in Nero's footsteps.
Arriving at Apollo's temple, Sabinus found himself embraced by the new Caesar. “Thank the gods! I couldn't go on without the Flavians! Could I, my love?”
“No, Caesar,” answered an oddly-false voice. Otho held out his hand and the boy Spiros – once more wigged, gowned, and perfumed – took it. Otho twirled the false woman three times, then pulled her into an embrace.
Seeing Sabinus' surprise, Otho winked. “Yes, I know. But Nero was right. She looks just like Poppaea. So much that I can't bear to let her go. I lost her once. Not again.”
The boy darted a fleeting look at Clemens, half-mournful, half-mocking. Clemens seemed to sigh. Please, Venus, not my son as well, thought Sabinus. He was relieved when Clemens walked away.
Otho snapped his fingers. “Oh, Titus Flavius! I am reminded. With you here, I am free to make my first decree as Princeps! Titianus?” Otho's brother produced a roll of paper which he handed to the new Caesar. “Here is a bank draft for fifty million sesterces.”
“Caesar?” asked Sabinus, utterly perplexed as he received this mighty sum.
Otho laughed loudly, mostly for the benefit of the gathered nobility. “It's not a bribe, Titus Flavius! I cannot afford to lavish such largesse on my senators. Not yet, at any rate. No, this sum is for you to finally finish Nero's greatest vision – the Golden House! The people must have their great edifice made whole. As Cicero remarked, the people's good is the highest law!”
Utterly bewildered, Sabinus bowed. “As you wish, Caesar.”
* * *
Yet even as Otho celebrated in the palace on the Palatine that now was his by right of treachery, a messenger was heading for Rome with news. The gods were not yet finished wreaking their havoc.
Having felt the lash of Galba's displeasure, having been insulted by his disdain, having been treated with disrespect, the legions of both Upper and Lower Germania had decided to forego the annual oath of allegiance to the Imperator in Rome. Instead they had decided to nominate their own Caesar, backed up by the tips of their swords and the force of their arms.
The name of their proposed Caesar had every Roman nobleman laughing in despair. They had scanned their ranks and chosen as their best hope for the future – Aulus Vitellius. While Otho was busy making himself Caesar in Rome, the corpulent, indulgent, acerbic, and lazy Vitellius had evidently been doing the same in Germania.
Never had there been a more accidental civil war. The armies of Rome were now like the Cyclops when his eye was out, thirty legions staggering and groping, blinded by an unexpected truth: they had a voice in the running of Rome. It was not a new truth. Sulla had exploited it, as had the Divine Caesar, and Antony, and Augustus. But in those cases the leader had picked his troops. Today, it was the soldiers picking their leaders.
Already this was being called 'The Year of the Three Imperators.' And each of those three – Galba, Otho, and Vitellius – had been nominated by soldiers.
But the gods were not finished. For not all the soldiers had declared their choice.
XIX
ATHENS, GREECE
17 FEBRUARY 69 AD
Titus and his brother-in-law Cerialis were sitting at anchor in the port of Athens when they learned of the death of Galba. They looked at each other blankly.
“What do we do?” asked Cerialis.
“I have no earthly idea,” replied Titus.
Subsequent news was relayed swiftly, in the form of letters. The first that arrived was in the hand of Caenis, written for Vespasian. Titus was grateful there was little love-talk, and leapt straight at the meat:
Otho offered Vitellius handsome concessions to give up his claim, but we've just heard that Vitellius is making the same offer in return. The Head Count crowds favour Otho, because he's so very like Nero. But the business classes are afraid he'll impose new taxes to fund his lifestyle. They all knew Vitellius' father, and though Aulus is a poor (if fat) reflection of his sire, they think he'll at least check the public spending, even if he himself lives like an Eastern potentate. The nobility is evenly split – as are the armies. Vitellius has the Germanic legions, while the legions in Dalmatia, Pannonia, and Moesia have all declared for Otho. This war, my love, is suddenly very real.
The final word on it, though, came from my dear friend Sextilla. When we were told of her son's sudden elevation, I said to her, 'Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Caesar Augustus. It's quite an honour.' In answer she sniffed. 'I gave birth to a plain Vitellius,' said she. 'I don't know who this Germanicus is. Nor do I wish to. Whatever he does will end in ruin. I just pray he won't ruin Rome with him.'
As do we all.
The next letter was from Titus' little brother, Domitian:
Vitellius has sent two generals over the Alps. In winter! This is clearly a huge surprise. Otho doesn't have the luxury of waiting until campaigning season. Vitellius means to win this war now. I say Vitellius, but he is reportedly too drunk to come up with such clever stratagems. The sluggardly sot is the puppet of men with lesser names, using his birth to gain control of Rome.
One is another Aulus – Aulus Caecina Alienus, last year's quaestor in Hispania. Naturally, being charged with Galba's public funds, he came over with Galba and was rewarded with a post in Germania under Vitellius. But evidently h
e had a hand in the public coffer. Galba was waiting for the new year to prosecute Caecina for embezzling public monies. Hence Caecina's sudden support for a new Caesar.
The other is a much worse man, Fabius Valens. He had a hand in the murder of the Lower Germanic commander last fall. Did I say a hand? I meant his sword was bloody to the hilt. At the time he accused his commander of denying Galba's right and proclaiming himself Caesar instead. Now it seems it was just the opposite – Valens tried to make his commander Caesar, and when the man refused, killed him and reversed the blame. Valens proclaimed his own innocence and loyalty to Galba. Yet the moment Vitellius arrived, he began pushing to make him Caesar.
Expecting to fight Galba, now they're faced with Otho instead. I'm hoping to go north and fight in Otho's army. I will make you proud, pater.
“Good luck with that, little brother,” thought Titus, half-hoping the pimple would get himself killed. Yet he wondered if Domitian hadn't gotten it right. Should he and Cerialis join Otho's army as well? Just turned twenty-nine years old last December, he could possibly be made a praetor and legate in Otho's Rome. Would that help preserve his father's command? Or should I be doing something more?
A letter from Sabinus contained one more dramatic piece of news:
Otho plans to meet Vitellius in the field. By which I mean, he'll do the same as Vitellius and let his senators wage the war for him. Senators like me.
Yes, I am to command a detachment of Nero's new legion, made of singing marines. These are the same men Galba decimated. Otho has even offered me the consulship, starting on the Ides of April. How the Urban Praetor can be consul he does not say. I should feel honoured, and perhaps I will – if we survive to see April.
I tell myself I am fighting for Rome, but Otho is not Rome. Nor is Vitellius. I need a cause to believe in, cousin. Can you give me one?
Reading this naked urging, Titus was surprised. Was even his Stoic cousin begging Vespasian to declare? If so, what are we waiting for?
Cerialis and he had both been working desperately hard these last two years to win the affection of the troops for Vespasian. It was Titus who spread the story of Josephus' prophecy, and of that Hebrew priest's. It was Titus who made sure his father supped with every centurion at least once each month. It was Titus who provided a bonus each Saturnalia, not in Caesar's name, but in Vespasian's.
Originally this had been intended as a buttress should Nero ever recall his general and order him to emulate Corbulo. But now it seemed as if the gods had given him the idea of winning over his father's legions for quite another reason.
Yet there were other legions – many other legions. Was three enough?
Titus was roused from his thoughts as Cerialis finished perusing this latest letter. “What do we do, Titus? Continue on, pretend we were sent to treat with Otho? If we go, we risk Sabinus' fate, being conscripted into Otho's war against Vitellius. If we don't, Otho will assume we're on Vitellius' side.”
For once Titus resembled his father, bearing a brow creased with worry. “He can't possibly believe that! My father despises Vitellius.”
“Crassus despised Pompey,” countered Cerialis. “Didn't stop them working together.”
Like his father, Titus knew he was not a great mind. But he deemed himself both practical and decisive, a combination he judged often better than genius. “You, Quintus Petillius, will go on to Rome alone. Give my father's compliments to Otho, hail him as Caesar, but do not march in his war. Say that you are under orders to return at once to the East.”
“He'll try to get troops out of me,” protested Cerialis.
“Promise them. Promise him anything. Promise him the moon. If the Vitellians survive the Alps, they'll bring Otho to battle long before you can make good the promise. If Otho wins, we are his valued allies. If he loses, the promise is void.”
Soaking all this in, Cerialis looked wary. “And while I'm doing all this, where will you be?”
“Traveling back to my father, naturally, to bear him these letters. Let's see… I think I'll work my way through Greece, then into Macedonia, Thracia, Bythinia, Asia Province, Cappadocia, and Cilicia.”
“A circuitous journey,” observed Cerialis, amused.
Titus opened his hands. “All this sea travel has turned my stomach. Better to return overland. Besides, in troubled times like these, I would be remiss if I didn't stop to inspect every legion and outpost between here and Judea. Just to sound out their loyalty.” He snapped his fingers. “I'll also send to our dear friends Mucianus in Syria and Tiberius Julius in Alexandria. They should test their men's loyalty as well.”
Cerialis' grin stretched from ear to ear. “You didn't say loyalty to whom.”
Titus blinked innocently. “Why, to the best man to be Caesar, of course.”
* * *
ROMA, ITALIA
For Otho, matters seemed to go from bad to worse. He set out to do everything he could imagine to convince the people that he was the man to return to Rome the peace Augustus had forged. He had coins minted bearing the word PAX ORBIS TERRARUM – 'Peace Throughout the World.' He held games, threw feasts, gave speeches, all of which the citizens of Rome appreciated.
He also had the worst malefactors of Nero and Galba's reigns put to death. Foremost among these was Otho's old friend Tigellinus, torn from a luxurious bed full of prostitutes – he had discarded Vinia after the death of her father.
Dragged before the new Caesar, Nero's master of revels looked stunningly ill. At first Otho thought it was fear. Then he saw the yellow pallor of the man's skin, the thinness of his hair. “You're not well, Ofonius.”
“I'm dying, Marcus Salvius,” said Tigellinus simply.
“Of what disease?”
“Of them all. Too much high living. My cock looks like a knotted pine. My stomach churns constantly. I cannot shit. I'm losing my hair. Nothing smells right. I'll be dead within the year. Please, just let me die in comfort.”
“That would not please the people,” said Otho.
Tigellinus threw out his hands. “Do they want me to suffer? I'm suffering!”
“Not good enough. The people must see you suffer.”
“Why?”
“Because of all the suffering you caused in them. For Corbulo, if nothing more. But you've raped their wives, their daughters, even their sons. They cannot take revenge on Nero. But they can be revenged on you.”
Tigellinus bowed his head. “How?”
“I'll strip you of your citizenship and have you crucified. It's the most public way.”
Now real horror crossed the former Praetorian's face. “No! Please, for the love of Juno, let me fall on my sword!”
“I apologize. I truly do. But as I said, the people must see your suffering.”
“Marcus, Marcus! We are friends! Remember all the good times?”
“I do. And I shall treasure those memories. For there will be no more like them. Take him away.”
But the crafty Tigellinus managed to escape the cross. Begging to be allowed to shave before he was crucified, he took the razor and slashed his throat from ear to ear. Thus the people of Rome were cheated of seeing their vengeance, could only hurl abuse at his corpse.
Unlike Galba and Nero, Otho's execution list was quite short. Vinius was already dead, and Nymphidius, of course. But Galba's Praetorian chief Cornelius Laco was alive, hiding on an island where Otho's men found and beheaded him. Galba's former freedman Icelus was stripped of his citizenship and crucified. The only Neronian malefactor who escaped him was Calvia Crispinilla, as he was not going to risk executing a woman.
For his justice and for his clemency both, Otho was cheered, he was lauded, he was loved. Yet a mood of gloom still hovered. The people approved of Otho, but did not believe his reign was a restoration of the Pax Romana. How could it be, when already there was a civil war in the offing?
Regarding the war, there was a question of command. Since the coup in January had been performed without senators, Otho did not know which sen
ators he could truly trust. Looking at the Senate, Otho chose the most proven man among them to lead the first legion north to meet Vitellius. Gaius Suetonius Paulinus had defeated Boudica, after all, and had himself commanded the German legions before being relieved. An able commander who might sway some of his former soldiers to switch sides, Paulinus was sent off with all the men currently available in Rome – a paltry lot, but eager to fight.
Adding to Otho's problems was Praetorian mistrust. Not of him! They had made him their darling. No, their mistrust was reserved for his fellow senators. Already there had been one mutiny. Mistaking a simple transfer of arms to the urban cohorts as treason against the new Caesar, the Praetorians had risen up and begun beating and murdering these suspected traitors. Only when they saw Otho safe and unharmed did the killing stop.
This mistrust grew to such degree that no senator felt comfortable walking the streets without witnesses. Common citizens shut up their doors and doused their lights in an attempt to go unnoticed.
Worse still were the omens. In March, just as Otho was preparing to travel north to face the enemy, spring floods toppled the Pons Sublicius, the oldest bridge in Rome. Debris dammed the river and the Tiber overflowed. Countless Romans were swept away in the chilly waters, and hundreds of homes and shops were ruined.
Armed and ready to face the Vitellian legions, Otho learned the Campus Martius was blocked with debris, as well as the Flaminian Way, the northbound road out of Rome. Yet, for all his foppish attires, mincing steps, and perfumed wigs, Otho showed surprising steel as he mounted his horse. “The gods only bestow obstacles on great men, to test their mettle! We ride north!”
Sabinus climbed onto his own horse, and Clemens handed him up his cloak and a bag of food. “The field of Mars unusable, and the path to war blocked. More, he chooses the Ides of March to start his trek northwards? A playwright might say this venture isn't destined for success.”