by David Blixt
The legates and governors did not know that since January the talk around campfires and in barracks had been all about when the general would make his move. It was past time the Judean legions took their rightful place on the world stage, and if it meant war with the German legions, they were unafraid. “We'll eat those trouser-wearing barbarians for breakfast.” It did not matter a jot that those 'trouser-wearing barbarians' were fellow Romans. Vespasian's army was spoiling for a fight.
In the command tent, it was decided that the first announcement would come from the Aegyptian legions under Tiberius Julius Alexander, the apostate Jew who had risen to the level of Roman governor. That would make it a claim from a stable region whose troops had no connection to Vespasian.
The date was fixed as the first of Julius. As soon as word arrived that the Aegyptian legions were hailing Vespasian as Caesar Imperator, Titus and Mucianus would make the announcement to their own men.
But the question of how still troubled them. Should it be bald? Should it be coy? Should they read the Aegyptian announcement and let the dice fall?
In the event, the announcement was made in the most perfect way, and entirely by accident. On the third day of Julius, before the message from Aegypt had even arrived, Centurion Barbarus of the Fifteenth Legion was walking past the commander's billet when he saw Vespasian emerge. Barbarus raised a hand in salute and, quite unthinkingly, hailed, “Ave, Caesar!”
Vespasian checked, startled. The men around Barbarus, not wishing to fail in hailing their commander by this title, leapt to emulate the salute. “Ave, Caesar! Caesar Imperator!” Within moments men were flocking from all over the camp to join their voices to the shouts, the legionaries doing so in relief to have it out in the open, and their officers out of fear of being deemed disloyal. “Im-per-a-tor! Im-per-a-tor!”
A formal assembly was hastily called. Titus produced a letter from Otho, pleading with Vespasian to return and save Rome. With this thin legal pretext for their revolt, the oath of allegiance was given, first to the Fifteenth, then to all the armies and citizens in Judea, Syria, and Aegypt.
“I didn't know Otho wrote a letter,” observed Trajan in Titus' ear.
“If we fail at this,” answered a grinning Titus, “I have a future career as a forger.”
The strategy had been formulated long before. A force would head north and west, gathering disaffected Eastern legions in its path. Then, when the commander deemed his army strong enough, he would set sail in a massive fleet, while sending more legions overland. At the same time, Aegypt would cut off grain supplies to Italia and prepare for an invasion of Africa Province. It was a page from the late Clodius Macer's manual, and a shrewd move. If the African grains went unshipped, Rome would be starving just as a massive army came down upon it. The goal was to achieve such an over-mastering strength that there would be no fighting at all. A bloodless revolution would be an excellent start to a new era. With any new Pax Romana, the peace should begin at home.
The plan agreed to, the conspirators discovered an unexpected snag.
“It's my army and my war!” brayed Vespasian, in stubborn imitation of one of his mules. “Of course I should lead them!”
As usual, everyone looked to Titus to reason with the general. “Pater, you cannot–”
“A true Roman leads from the front. There's been too little of that of late!” he added in an obvious jab at Otho and Vitellius.
“It is true, Titus Flavius, that a general leads from the front,” agreed Mucianus placatingly. “But you are no longer a mere general. You are Caesar Imperator, the rightful Princeps. If a general falls in service to Rome, there is another general to take his place. If you fall, who can replace you?”
Vespasian extended a hand. “Titus replaces me, naturally.”
“In time,” agreed Mucianus. “But – and forgive me, Titus – you cannot replace a victorious proconsular general with a legate that has not yet even served his term as praetor! No, Titus Flavius, you must allow someone else to lead this army in your name.”
Vespasian turned to Tiberius. “Tiberius Julius? Surely you agree with me.”
Newly arrived from his province, the apostate Jew shook his head. “I cannot, Titus Flavius. Aside from the risk should you fall, how would it look? You would be abandoning your legal war to wage a civil one. Such a thing would not help your image in Rome.”
This argument clearly hit home. Seeing Vespasian waver, Mucianus added, “Better it appears to be the men themselves are marching for you. And it can't be your legions. You need them here to finish this war. We'll use the Syrian legions, with just a vexillation from each of yours. They'll march on Rome while you finish conquering Judea.”
Titus added his earnest voice. “Truly, father, I think they have it right.”
Seeking final confirmation, Vespasian turned to the last man in the chamber, Josephus. The defeated general bowed his head. “They speak sense. Especially with the war here yet unwon.” He was eager for a siege of Jerusalem – not because he wished to see his beloved city destroyed, but rather to save it from the rot that had already claimed his friends Ananus and Joshua. That villain Yohanan had much to answer for!
Vespasian threw up his hands. “Very well! But you must tell the legions that I wished to lead them, that only duty to Rome kept me here.”
With their titular leader finally swayed, it now became a matter of who would actually lead the expedition – they could not bring themselves to call it an invasion – to Rome. Tiberius Julius was excluded by his birth. Titus, Trajan, and Sextus by their lack of age and experience. Placidus could not be trusted to preserve his men.
It came down to Mucianus. A consular senator of good birth, he had the clout. And as the bulk of the troops would be Syrian, it was only logical the Syrian governor should lead them. “Which means stripping the Parthian border bare.”
“We'll have to keep an eye on that as well,” answered Placidus, “while we're besieging Jerusalem.”
“We won't be besieging Jerusalem,” declared Vespasian. To the several surprised looks he answered, “What if Gaius Licinius requires reinforcements? We can't have all our troops tied up in a siege if Vitellius proves a hard nut to crack. No, Jerusalem must wait. Next year, I promise, we shall have her. I have it from no less authority than the Pythia of Delphi. Until then, let them continue to stew and fear us.”
“Besides,” chuckled Titus, “they're far too busy killing each other to notice us.” Josephus did not laugh at that, merely smiled grimly.
“Very well,” said Mucianus, delighted with the great war before him. “I'll depart as soon as we've divided up the necessary troops.”
“Who will govern Syria in your stead,” asked Tiberius Julius. “It can't be Titus Flavius, it's beneath him now.”
“I'll promote Gnaeus Pompeius Collega. He's the legionary legate of the Fourth Scythia, and a solid man. Besides, the name Pompeius will calm things down.”
“That's a very good idea,” said Titus. “I suggest we promote men of outstanding valour, and make the auxiliaries into full citizens.”
“Why not make knights of the best centurions?” added Trajan. “They'll fight harder if they see a higher station waiting on the winning side.”
“But no gold,” said Vespasian sternly. “Don't promise them money we don't have. I won't fall into the trap that ruined Galba. Rome is destitute. If we win, I'll be saddled with a monstrous debt, a war, and a people so frightened they won't behave normally for years to come. We can't pay the legions a donative.”
“Another reason to take Jerusalem,” said Titus grimly. “Let the Judeans fund our victory.”
“Don't worry about money,” assured Mucianus. “I'll take what we require from Anatolia and Greece while we march. Titus Flavius, Rome will be yours by the new year.”
* * *
VERONA, ITALIA
The consulship was the height of a man's political career, the finishing line of the cursus honorum. To reach the consulship was to enshrin
e one's family forever in history, honouring those who had gone before and bestowing fame and glory to those who would follow.
Only three Flavians before now had ever been consul, and none so young. What's more, Sabinus had been praetor and consul in the same year, something he doubted had ever happened before in the annals of Roman history.
This should have been his moment to shine, the year when he passed laws, went to war, and led the Senate and People of Rome. As senior consul, he had no superior save the Princeps himself.
Yet Sabinus spent his first and only month as consul kicking his heels in the city of Verona, waiting for Vitellius to travel over the Alps. When at last the corpulent new Caesar appeared, he pardoned Sabinus along with the rest of the senators who had supported Otho – and at the same time stripped Sabinus and the other magistrates of their offices, bestowing the title of consul upon Valens and Caecina instead. As part of the ceremony, Sabinus was made to hail Vitellius by his new name: Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus Princeps Senatus.
He is ennobled with new titles, while I am marked as a joke, an also-ran. Not even consul for a full cycle of the moon. Rather than make a name in history, I'll forever be a consul suffectus, a place-holder. A flash of lightning, not a lamp. Having been Otho's consul, Vitellius will never allow me to stand for the vote and earn it in my proper year. I may call myself a consular, but every man will know how hollow that title is. I never sat in the consul's chair, never called the Senate to order, never placed my name to a law. There will be no lex Flavia, no record of my passing, even of my existence. What was it the Pythia said? 'Alone, unsung, all but Forgot.' It is certainly proving true, damn her.
Between celebratory gladiatorial tournaments, Vitellius made the commanders from both sides accompany him to the battleground and recount for him the details of the short war. Paulinus claimed to have deliberately lost his engagements so that Otho might lose. No one believed him, though it probably saved his life.
After that, they all went to Bedriacum to stand over Otho's grave. Seeing it, Vitellius smiled. “A little tomb, fit for a little man.”
Only after those awful revels were finished were the senators on the losing side released. Paulinus went off to his country estate. Sabinus and the rest headed back to Rome.
With Otho dead and Vitellius not yet arrived, the city was an uneasy place. No one knew what to say, whom to trust. The common people carried on, but the nobility and knights all fretted. There was one word that rang in Roman memory – proscriptions. Would Vitellius repair Rome's ruined finances by condemning the upper classes to exile and confiscating their property? There seemed no other way. Asked, Sabinus answered that he had no knowledge. “So far, Vitellius Caesar is the model of clemency.” No one seemed relieved.
After four days of riding, Sabinus was glad to reach his father's house on the Quirinal. With a kind smile and a pat on the shoulder, Mamercus left him there, returning to his centurion duties in the city cohort.
Inside, Sabinus discovered the boys were all absent, and his father as well. Thus he had the pleasure of a bath and a shave in absolute privacy – none of the slaves asked him about the war. If one could even call it a war.
He was just drying off when his steward entered. “Quintus Flavius Gaudentius to see you, domine. Shall I say you are not at home?”
It was tempting. But it was not Stoic. “No, show him in to the tablinum.”
Dressed in a plain tunic and sandals, Sabinus entered the study and crossed to the desk rather than a couch. Fatigue made him gruff. Without pleasantries, he said, “What is it, cousin?”
Gaudentius replied in kind. “What is it? The fucking Domus Aurea, that's what.”
Sabinus closed his eyes. Nero's Golden House was a national problem. Galba had ordered work halted, Otho resumed it, but with war looming, the Senate had deemed it prudent to again halt the work. “Cousin, tell me you did not come here today to speak of a house.”
Gaudentius seemed ready to erupt. “A house? A house is finished, cousin. A house is even occupied. Pfah! Guess who I had a visit from this morning. Guess!”
“Just tell me, Quintus.”
“The fat wife of our fat new Caesar.”
That opened his eyes. “Vitellius' wife? Galeria Fundana?”
“Yes, her, the cunnus! She has it in mind to throw a massive feast to celebrate her husband's arrival, and wants me to start again – but she thinks it's too tame! Nero's tastes are too modest for her!” Gaudentius literally pulled his hair. “Stop, start, stop, start! Five years on a lavish eyesore. Titus Flavius, you must help me!”
Though tired to the bone, Sabinus felt the itch of a smile. “And why is that?”
Gaudentius frowned. “Because – because we're family!”
“Distant family,” said Sabinus. “I'm not certain I can even trace it.”
“You were plebeian aedile when the project was commissioned.”
“That was a very long time ago.”
“But Nero put you in charge. So did Otho.”
“Nero's dead. So is Otho.”
“But – you're a consul!”
That made Sabinus smile and shrug. “Sorry. Not anymore.”
Gaudentius struck the air. “Why are you enjoying this?!”
“Perversity, I suppose.” Sabinus relented. “Very well, say I was to help you. What do you want?”
“Make the Senate vote me some funds independent of the Princeps. If I'm not tied to Caesar's purse, I can finish this damned thing.”
“As I recall, you promised Nero that your new methods would make the construction happen faster than anything before.”
“And it did!” cried Gaudentius, practically leaping from his chair. “Nero kept expanding the project, as you well know! Suddenly I'm in charge of mosaic-layers and goldsmiths and perfumeries – I ask you, what has perfume to do with architecture? Truly, I ask you!” Sabinus was laughing outright now, and even Gaudentius could see the funny side. “If it takes becoming a client, Titus Flavius, I will do it. But I'll never be able to accept another commission until this one is complete.”
“I'll see what I can do. But I'll not have a member of the family as a client.”
Gaudentius looked greatly relieved. “Nevertheless, Titus Flavius, I shall look upon this as a cliental obligation. Nero is dead, he had no heirs. You are my patron now, and I shall behave as a client to you, and to your children in turn. If a humble architect can be of any use,” he added in self-deprecation.
Sabinus offered the architect a cup of wine before ushering him out. He felt quite certain that he would gain nothing from that relationship, but the world had too few men like Gaudentius. Men who could make dreams become real. Too many men tried, and had their dreams crash down around them like the pillars of a temple with faulty foundations.
Men like me, thought Sabinus bleakly. Men without the vision to even have a dream beyond a career, a family, and long life. What legacy is left to me? What is there to fight for?
The answer came the next day, as news broke that the army of Titus Flavius Vespasianus had declared him Caesar.
* * *
CAESAREA, SYRIA
On the night of his army's departure, Vespasian was restless. Titus was off again with his Jewish Queen, and Cerialis was still in Rome. Deprived of his family, he sent for Josephus and invited him to sup.
The pretext was to ask advice. “I can't do nothing, so I mean to recruit, train, and equip the locals in Syria, just in case King Vologaeses of Parthia decides to invade. I can use your help.”
“Anything, Titus Flavius. Or shall I call you Caesar now?”
“Caesar,” said Vespasian slowly, staring down into his silver cup of wine. “Is this hubris? I'm sixty years old. Six dolphins down, and an egg in the seventh cup. My race is almost run. Besides, look at how long Galba and Otho lasted. Do I want to be another three-month Caesar?”
“Be at peace, Titus Flavius,” said Josephus. “'A great man will come out of the East and rule the world.' Tr
ust the Lord.”
Vespasian's frown deepened. “The most troubling thing is, if someone asked me why I want to be Princeps, I don't know what I'd answer. To restore Rome? To preserve the peace? For glory, honour, fame, wealth, security? Any answer I think of comes down to either hubris or cupidity. Why do I want to be Caesar?”
“Because it is your duty,” answered Josephus. “You are a soldier. Duty is in your veins.”
“Oh, how I wish politics were as simple as the battlefield!”
“Most senators would say the opposite, being inveterate couch-generals, as you call them. That is why you have the advantage.”
Vespasian's creased face softened in amusement. “Do I?”
“Politics can be waged as a war, but wars can rarely be waged politically. I mean to say, the tactics of war may succeed in the Senate, whereas the typical political maneuvers would fail on the battle-field.”
“I'm not so certain,” mused Vespasian. “A strong coalition of allies, good public opinion, back-stabbing, smear-tactics, murder – these are all useful in war. If not particularly honourable,” he added.
Josephus smiled. “See? You have a fine grasp of politics.”
“Ha! Very well. But I have been wondering – fretting really – over one more thing. It's not that I don't desire the job. I do! And duty is as good a reason as any.”
“Then what troubles you, Titus Flavius?” asked Josephus.
“I'm not certain what it is.”
“What what is?”
“The job of Princeps. I don't know what it even entails any more.”
Josephus' brow furrowed and he thought for a long time. “Interesting. Yes, since Augustus, the role of the Princeps has seemed ever to change with the man. Imperator is clear enough – be in charge of the armies. But Princeps? To be the leader, the first among equals. That is less a job than – a role. A position. A calling.”
Vespasian could see his captured foe turned ally thinking as he talked. “Go on.”