by David Blixt
Antonius clapped in delight. “Well done! So, what news?”
Cerialis gave a smart recitation of the forces of the city and the mood of the people. Both favoured Vespasian.
“Can we expect any help from Old Sabinus?”
“That old fart?” cried Cerialis scornfully. “For months everyone's been working on him – friends, relatives, even his own son, all urging him to declare for his brother.”
“He won't?” asked Antonius, stunned.
“He pleads old age – well, he is almost sixty-five, so there's truth in it. But he's a cautious goose, and he would have cautioned himself right into the grave if not for Cremona. That put a fire in his turgid old belly. Now that there's a chance of Vespasian actually winning, he demands that he and his family be given preeminence if you take Rome.”
“If we take Rome?” mused Antonius. “How can we not?”
“I quite agree. The back of this war broke at Cremona.”
“Nicely said! But is that why you're here? To bear his message?”
“Yes, I'm supposed to go back with assurances from you. But I've got slaves who can do that job. I want to fight. I don't need a whole legion, mind – don't want to upset your dispositions. But I'm good with cavalry. Got a horse troop somewhere that needs a blooding?”
Antonius realized he was looking at a kindred soul, a fellow risk-taker, a perfect partner for a war that so far had been won on boldness. “I think I can find something to suit you.”
“Thank you. And Old Sabinus?”
Antonius considered. “Send him word that he will receive consideration commensurate with the aid he's been to the cause.”
Cerialis barked out a laugh. “That'll put a burr under his inert old carcass!”
Antonius saw a concern. “Do you think Vespasian will approve?”
“Oh, absolutely! He hates his brother!”
* * *
The message was smuggled back into Rome in a basket of fruit. As intended, the contents made Old Sabinus positively apoplectic. He was averse to risk of any kind – hence the old refusal to even give his brother a loan. It had looked at the time like a very bad investment. In hindsight he did not quite regret his choice, but admitted he could have done more to be in good standing with his brother.
“I did house and raise his son!” he protested over supper one evening, speaking as if Domitian were not present on a lower couch. “That should count for something.”
“It counts for a great deal, I'm sure,” answered Sabinus, sending a wry smile Domitian's way.
“And I'm housing his grand-daughters as well!” Since Cerialis had sneaked away, it was too dangerous to leave Flavia Domitilla and Julia Titi as potential hostages to Vespasian's good behavior – an event that pleased young Flavia, at least. Living in the same house as Clemens had her over the moon. Clemens himself was not so thrilled. He kept throwing up his hands, expecting to be hit.
“I'm keeping his heirs alive and safe,” continued Old Sabinus. “He cannot expect more from me.”
“Expect?” said Tertius. “Maybe not, avus. But it won't earn our branch of the family any praise, will it? While strangers are willing to fight and die for Vespasian, here we are, his close blood kin, safely sitting on our hands in Rome. Please pass the turnips, brother.”
“Gladly,” said Clemens, taking one before sliding the dish across the low table separating them.
“Thank you. Even Helvidius Priscus is using the office of praetor-elect to challenge Vitellius to step down.”
Old Sabinus waved this off. “Helvidius Priscus has always set himself up as the only remaining Republican, trying to overthrow a tyrant. The name of the tyrant doesn't matter.”
“It matters to us,” said Domitian mulishly.
“What would you have me do!” cried Old Sabinus. “Raise the militia, surround the Palatine, and fight the Praetorians?”
“Yes!” cried Domitian hotly. “There are nine thousand former Praetorians in Rome, men who belonged to Otho that Vitellius dismissed. And you have two thousand more in the City Cohorts!”
“While Vitellius has eighteen thousand men!”
“So what? We can fight!”
“While you do what? Paint? Play music? I rue the day you went to Greece. Art!” added Old Sabinus, practically spitting through his toothless gums.
Sabinus tried to soothe the moment. “Pater, we've all been struggling to find ways to fill the time.”
But Domitian had a hotter answer for his uncle. “Put a sword in my hand and I'll fight, you decrepit coward!”
Old Sabinus leapt from his couch. “Say that again when you've seen as many battles as I have boy. No, wait – say it again when you've seen one. At least your brother Titus is a proper man! Out there soldiering, doing real work. Whereas you want to take on the Praetorians? You? You wouldn't last twenty heartbeats, boy.”
“Try me!”
“You want to take on eighteen thousand men?!”
“Yes!” shouted Domitian, half-rising.
“No,” said Clemens calmly.
The old man turned his venom on his younger grandson. “No? I thought all of you were in favour of action. Does the prospect of actual fighting curb that rebellious streak?”
“Not at all,” said Clemens levelly, pulling Domitian back down. “I just think there's a better way to show Uncle Vespasian our loyalty.”
“Why, when he's shown us none?”
But Sabinus saw something in his son's face. “What do you have in mind, mi filius?”
“An interview with Vitellius,” answered Clemens. “A frank and honest discussion of how matters at present stand. He is in such torpor, he'll cling to any proposal that sees him keep his life.”
“And that proposal will be..?”
“Abdication, in return for a comfortable retirement. All Vitellius desires is comfort. It was never his idea to become Princeps. I don't think he'll mourn losing the title.”
Old Sabinus looked thoughtful. “And you think I should be the one to make this proposal?”
“It is essential that it be you, avus. Your dislike of your brother is known. For that reason Vitellius will trust any terms you make.”
Sabinus added his voice to his son's plan. “You'll be the hero that ended civil war, pater, and without further bloodshed. Historians will look back upon it as a triumph of civic-mindedness and good sense.”
The old man's eyes were now turned inwards, perhaps reading the words future generations would write of him. “Very well, very well. I shall request an audience with Vitellius.”
* * *
There were four audiences in all – such negotiations took time. Held in the Temple of Apollo upon the Palatine Hill, there were only a handful of men present. Old Sabinus brought his son and one of the new consuls, Gaius Quinctius Atticus, while Vitellius brought the other consul, Gnaeus Caecilius Simplex, and the poetic Silius Italicus, who had been Nero's junior consul the previous year.
The negotiations were meant to be secret, but word quickly spread, and the cause of the meetings was simple to guess at. Sabinus appeared calm, while Vitellius walked to and from his palace with slumped shoulders and a hangdog expression.
The Flavians gained more leverage with each session. Valens had been caught by the governor of Gaul, a personal friend of Vespasian's. Once that became known, three more legions declared for Vespasian, one in Britannia, one in Hispania, and one in Gaul. There were fewer and fewer possibilities for a Vitellian resurgence.
Sabinus came home from the third session to find a message from Caenis. She knew he was being watched, but as she was Vespasian's mistress, so was she. It could do no harm to call.
Arriving at her door, Sabinus was admitted by her freedman Aglaus and two of his sons. Clearly they were prepared to protect their mistress. “Antonia Caenis has sent for me.”
“Of course. This way, Titus Flavius.”
Ushered into her sitting room, Sabinus took the couch she offered him. They exchanged news – there was so much of it, and v
ariations on every story that changed hourly. At last Sabinus said, “Thank you for your insights. Is this why you invited me?”
“No, actually. I thought you might wish to join me this evening. I plan to call on one of my friends.”
Sensing an attempt at matchmaking, Sabinus said, “Forgive me, I'm rather tired—”
“I'm sure,” answered Caenis coolly. “But this may ease your exhaustion. I mean to call upon Sextilla. With her voice added to yours, her son may see sense. Still too tired?”
“Not at all,” said Sabinus at once. Why hadn't I thought of that?
Surrounded by Aglaus and his four sons, they walked to the Vitellius family estate on the south side of the city, formulating their arguments as they went. But when they reached the house, they found grim-faced freedmen and weeping slaves. “What's the matter?”
Sextilla's steward looked at her through red-rimmed eyes. “It's domina! She's…she…”
Pushing past him, Sabinus and Caenis rushed into the house and found Sextilla in her late husband's y would lend her voice to Vespasian'Sextilla - perhaps o irons. Suddenly the Vitellians were lacking a gtablinum. The wizened old lady had taken the sword down from its place of honour, unsheathed it, and fallen upon it.
“Farewell, old friend,” said Caenis softly. “You are most eloquent in your opinion of your son's reign.”
* * *
His mother's suicide, combined with the surrender of his cohorts at Narnia, were signal enough. In their fourth conference, Vitellius bowed his head. “Very well.”
“You will resign, then?” demanded Old Sabinus.
“Willingly,” agreed Vitellius, weeping with relief.
Seeing Vitellius so unmanned, Old Sabinus refrained from demanding a timeframe for the resignation, confident that the agreement was enough.
“Little brother will owe me forever,” gloated Old Sabinus as he returned home. “I've won this war for him! Do I hear cheering? Do the people know already?”
“No, pater,” said Sabinus, laughing. “Have you forgotten what day it is? It's the seventeenth of December, the first day of Saturnalia. After the year we've had, the people need to celebrate.”
Old Sabinus scowled, then returned to imagining his next encounter with his brother.
* * *
As ever, the Saturnalia's start was marked with a massive public feast. Despite his low spirits, Vitellius was determined to put on a good face. He reveled it up, drinking and spewing with the rest. The following day he opened up Nero's Domus Aurea to the people, who were allowed to see for the first time where all their money had gone.
Things began well. There were impromptu plays and singing competitions, some races, and some truly wild sexual escapades involving the hunting of naked wives through the pastures, ending with a nude swim in Nero's Lake.
In the midst of the cavorting, Vitellius was struck with inspiration. The announcement of his abdication had been weighing on him, but he suddenly realized that Saturnalian freedom was the perfect vehicle for his needs. He retired from the party to prepare.
The next morning, the Nineteenth of December, Vitellius emerged from the palace on the Palatine Hill and descended into the crowded Forum. He wore a mantle of mourning, and his six year-old son was carried behind him upon a litter, as if in a funeral procession. Upon his head was the freedman's cap, ever the symbol of Saturnalian equality. But to Aulus Vitellius, it was more than that. It symbolized his liberation from a title that weighed upon him.
Vitellius mounted the Rostra and addressed the crowd. He told them of his love for Rome, his desire to bring them no more strife, and his own wish to live at peace once more. He then drew a ten-inch dagger from his belt and, as if it were a sword, tried to hand it off to Gnaeus Caecilius Simplex, the junior consul. In a perfect Saturnalian gesture, the master would now become the slave.
But Simplex wouldn't take the dagger, and the crowd began to chant, “No! No! No!” They blocked Vitellius going any way but back to the palace. They had not loved him until they pitied him, but now love him they did. They refused his offer of abdication, thus ensuring what he was desperate to avoid – more bloodshed.
* * *
“He did what?” demanded Old Sabinus, hurriedly donning his senatorial shoes.
“Tried to abdicate,” reported the senior consul Atticus, having rushed to inform Vespasian's brother of the news.
“And what happened?”
“The crowd wouldn't allow it. There was nothing any of us could do,” Atticus added impotently.
“The fool! That unmitigated idiot!” The old man rounded on his younger grandson. “See what comes of too much theatre?”
Sabinus said, “Is the crowd still there?”
“Yes, Titus Flavius.”
“Are they angry? Up in arms?”
“Actually, they seemed more – pitying.”
Old Sabinus rolled his eyes. “Romans! Fickle idiots! If they're not swayed by their bellies, they're listening to their emotions! Very well, come along. Gaius Quinctius, you and I will address the crowd, make them see this is what's good for everyone.” Spotting Clemens and Domitian joining his train of senators, he pointed at Vespasian's son. “Stay here! The last thing we need is for them to get a look at you chomping at the bit to be a Caesar! Coming, son?”
“Right behind you,” said Sabinus, though he lagged back of the other senators and when they started for the Forum, and darted off down a different cobblestone path.
“Evil old relic,” said Domitian as the gaggle of senators and knights left for the Forum.
“That evil old relic is off to secure your father's supremacy,” Clemens pointed out fairly. “And he's right. If he can convince the crowd to accept Vitellius' abdication, then you'll have a fourth name by nightfall – Caesar.”
Domitian's ready grin was evidence that he had considered this, and was not at all opposed to the idea.
* * *
Amid the crush of revelers, Abigail walked along wearing one of her mistress' finest gowns, feeling uncomfortable in the soft, expensive fabric. She was much more used to the rough simple clothes she made with her own hands, after the fashion of her people. But it was the Saturnalia. Despite the fact that she and her daughter did not worship Saturn, they were forced to take part in his celebrations.
A few steps behind, Domitia Longina strolled arm-in-arm with her boon companion, Verulana Gratilla, hugely entertained in their roles as slaves-for-a-day. Of course, the bundles they carried were not nearly as heavy as those she and Perel toted all the other days of the year. No, they were full of the little knitted figures that everyone shared at this time of year. The four women were out delivering them as gifts, mostly to men they were interested in making blush.
Last night, Abigail knew, Domitia had run in Vitellius' naked hunt, and proclaimed her favourite 'hunter' was an ex-gladiator who had used her roughly. “My only regret is that my husband was not there to watch.”
Now, walking behind Abigail and Perel, chatting loudly in a way no servant ever would, Domitia spied a large party of senators and knights. “Is that Sabinus? Ecastor, there's a catch! How did my ninny of a sister manage to let him wriggle out of her net?”
Abigail noted her daughter's reaction to the name Sabinus. This was the noble Roman who had been the Lord's instrument, saving her daughter from shame in that floating nightmare Nero had created. Looking at him now, Abigail liked what she saw. He had a good face, reflecting the good man she already knew lived within him.
“No sign of that son of his,” ventured Verulana, giggling like a much younger girl.
“Nor of his cousin, Domitianus,” said Domitia Longina wistfully.
“Are you still mooning over him? Stop wasting your time! He never answered your letters or invitations to dine. He clearly wants nothing to do with you.”
“Which only makes him more attractive,” said Domitia with determination.
“Or homosexual,” said Verulana scandalously. “My, Titus Flavius looks positively
grim. Oh look, he's meeting his father and the consul Atticus. They're headed for the Forum!”
“To address the crowds!” exclaimed Domitia in delight. “Do you think…?”
“Yes, absolutely! This is the moment! Vitellius will abdicate!”
Domitia's smile grew wicked. “Wouldn't it be delicious to join them?” Respectable women were not allowed in the Forum Romanum.
Verulana glowed. “Scandalous. Our husbands would be furious.”
Domitia turned to look at her slaves. “Abigail, Perel, push ahead and join that group of men.”
“Domina,” protested Abigail, “we are only slaves…”
“You can say you were on the way to the markets and got lost. Now obey me!”
“Yes, domina,” bowed Abigail, trusting to the Lord that she and her daughter would not end the day crucified.
* * *
Sabinus caught up to his father as the party of senators was passing between the Carinae and the Capitoline Hill, just coming to the Basin of Fundanus. “Where have you been?” demanded Old Sabinus.
“Collecting some friends.” Sabinus stepped aside to reveal Mamercus Cornelius Martialus with three more urban centurions – Titus Didius Scaeva, Marcus Aemilius Pacensis, and Sextus Casperius Niger. They all saluted Old Sabinus, their commander. “We gathered the off-duty lads as best we could. Perhaps a hundred, maybe more.”
Old Sabinus huffed. “Does my son think I need a bodyguard?”
“Turnabout, pater. Besides,” added Sabinus, jerking his chin at the Basin of Fundunus where a collection of mean-looking men were lingering, “Vitellius' friends have thronged the Forum. We need friends of our own.”
Old Sabinus saw the wisdom of this, even if he did not say so. “Just get me to the rostra so I can address the crowd. They'll see sense.”
But their path into the Forum was blocked almost at once. A burly fellow stood in their path, the scars across his arms branding him a former gladiator. “This is a gathering of patriots, old man.”
“No greater patriot than I, Quirite,” replied Old Sabinus with uncommon respect, calling the man by the common title of citizen. “If you let me pass, I shall prove it.”