Tiberius placed his left hand on the crown of Vespasian’s head and exerted a monumental pressure so that Vespasian felt that his thumb and forefinger would burst through his skull.
‘He is still young enough for me to push my fingers into his brain, my sweet,’ Tiberius observed, still staring into Vespasian’s eyes with that questioning, almost puzzled look. His breath held the unmistakable reek of fresh human faeces.
‘Yes, Nuncle, he is; but then I wouldn’t have my friend any more.’ Caligula’s voice had risen slightly.
The pressure on Vespasian’s head suddenly increased.
‘But I’m your friend,’ Tiberius abruptly shouted.
‘Yes, Nuncle, you are; but you’re my friend here. Vespasian is my friend in Rome; you don’t go to Rome so I need a friend when I’m there.’
Tiberius released his grip. Vespasian had to stop himself from rubbing his throbbing head.
‘But what happens if I come back to Rome?’ Tiberius asked, still staring at Vespasian.
‘If you do I won’t need another friend in Rome, Nuncle, and you can push your fingers into his brain then.’
‘In Rome then,’ Tiberius said, suddenly cheerily as if a difficult matter had been finally settled by the simplest and most obvious of solutions.
Vespasian breathed a sigh of relief as Tiberius turned his attention to the other members of his party; he felt that he at least was safe for the time being. Caligula nodded towards him surreptitiously from the doorway, confirming his belief. Next to Caligula stood a very pretty youth in his mid teens; his hair had been decorated with flowers and his white tunic was embroidered with gold thread around the hem and sleeve. Behind him, between Fulvius and Rufinus, Clemens stood stock-still with his hand on his sword hilt, looking even more pallid than usual.
‘What about these, my sweet? What are they?’ Tiberius cast his eyes slowly over Sabinus, Corbulo, Magnus and then Pallas. ‘Not more fishermen?’
‘Of course not, Nuncle, you don’t allow fishermen here any more,’ Caligula replied, choosing his words carefully. ‘These men have come with my friend with that important news that Thrasyllus predicted would arrive. One has a letter from Antonia to you.’
‘They’re not intruders then, come to destroy my peace of mind?’
‘It’s to help your peace of mind that they have come, Nuncle.’
Tiberius stared at Pallas for a while; nobody moved. ‘I know you,’ he said eventually, pointing his finger at the Greek. ‘You’re Antonia’s steward. Your name is Pallas, isn’t it?’
‘I am honoured that you should even recognise me let alone know my name, Princeps,’ Pallas replied, bowing. Even with the life-or-death tension in the air he still remained outwardly calm and composed; Vespasian was sweating freely despite the coolness of the morning.
‘She would have given you the letter; give it to me.’
Pallas reached down into his bag; Tiberius jumped back. Realising his mistake, Pallas quickly removed his hand from the bag and tipped it upside down so that the contents fell to the floor with a clatter. It was the first time that Vespasian had seen the smooth Greek flustered and he found himself enjoying the sight.
Pallas picked up the scroll and offered it to Tiberius; the Emperor looked at it closely and then, evidently satisfied that it would do him no harm, took it.
‘My mistress has sent her seal ring, Princeps,’ Pallas said, holding up his hand, which was visibly shaking, ‘to show you that the letter is genuine.’
Tiberius dismissed it with a wave. ‘You’re proof enough of that,’ he said plainly, looking at the scroll and feeling its weight in the palm of his hand. His voice had become less detached as though the presence of a letter from his sister-in-law had helped to draw him out of the dark world in his head into which he had evidently deeply sunk. He looked at Sabinus as if seeing him for the first time. ‘And you are?’ he asked with almost genuine interest.
‘Titus Flavius Sabinus, Princeps,’ Sabinus replied hastily.
‘Ah yes, tribune with the Ninth Hispana,’ Tiberius said without pausing to think, ‘served with distinction in Africa against Tacfarinas’ rebellion; a good man according to the reports I read.’
‘Thank you, Princeps,’ Sabinus spluttered, stunned, as they all were, by the Emperor’s sudden lucidity.
‘You will all stay here under Clemens’ guard whilst I read this letter; Vitellius will keep you company.’ Tiberius indicated the pretty youth. ‘He has certain talents. Come, my sweet; let’s see what your grandmother has been up to.’
Tiberius swept out of the room; Caligula raised his eyebrows at Vespasian and followed.
When the sound of the Emperor’s footsteps in the corridor had disappeared Vespasian and his companions all sank back down on to their buckets in exhausted relief.
They sat in silence for a long while, all contemplating how close to death they just had come. A loud moaning from the corner of the room brought them out of their reverie; Rhoteces had fully woken up.
‘Do something about him would you, please, Pallas?’ Vespasian said irritably; he hated the sound of the priest just as much as everything else about him.
‘I’m afraid we have to keep him conscious for now, master,’ Pallas replied, his composure returned. ‘He may be questioned soon.’
Although that thought cheered Vespasian the increasing noise that the priest was making grated on his already taut nerves. ‘Fucking shut up,’ he shouted to no effect.
‘Would you like me to soothe you, Vespasian?’ Vitellius asked, walking over to him and laying a soft hand on his shoulder.
‘What?’ Vespasian exclaimed, looking up aghast at the youth. ‘No!’ He angrily brushed Vitellius’ hand away.
‘You’re disgusting. Have you no sense of honour, boy?’ Sabinus spat. ‘You’re a son of the Vitellii, an old and noble family; what are you doing prostituting yourself like a harbour whore?’
‘If I don’t then I’ll die,’ Vitellius replied simply. ‘You’ve seen what he’s like.’
‘And you’d rather live in shame as his catamite than die like a man?’
‘To me that seems to be preferable; shame doesn’t matter to me. I’ve given up my honour and pride in order to live, just as my father did when he gave me to Tiberius in return for his life. This way, one day, I’ll have my revenge upon all those who have abused me, or if they’re dead then upon their families.’ Vitellius looked at Sabinus with steel in his eyes.
Sabinus returned his look in full measure. ‘I wouldn’t suck another man’s cock if my life depended on it, you degenerate.’
‘I hope that one day your life will depend on it; then we’ll see what you’ll choose, Titus Flavius Sabinus.’ Vitellius turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
‘Whore boy!’ Sabinus shouted after him.
‘This place does weird things to people,’ Magnus commented as the door slammed.
‘It’s not the place,’ Pallas said, standing over Rhoteces and showing him a knife, which quietened him down, ‘it’s the power. Absolute power will reduce anyone who holds it to a state of depravity if they are weak-willed or morally flawed.’
‘Then may the gods help us if Caligula becomes Emperor,’ Corbulo said, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe that I’m helping that eventuality to come about. Perhaps we should return to the Republic where two men shared that power for one year only.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ Vespasian asserted. ‘The wealth of the Empire is concentrated in too few hands; the days of the citizen soldier who fights alongside his neighbour to defend their small plots of land are long gone.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Sabinus asked dismissively. ‘Every man in the legions is a citizen.’
‘Yes, but now it’s upside down: instead of fighting to defend his land in order to return to it after a summer of campaigning, the common legionary is fighting to gain some land after his twenty-five years’ service.’
‘What difference does that make? Th
e army is still the army no matter what the motivation of the common legionary is.’
‘We’ve already seen what a difference it makes during the years of civil wars, from the time that Gaius Marius made the army professional until Augustus created the Empire. Do you want those days to come again?’
‘No, of course not,’ Sabinus conceded grudgingly: he didn’t like being bested by his brother, no matter how much the logic of his argument rang true. ‘So what do you suggest, brother, seeing as you seem to have been thinking about it?’
‘I have been thinking about it a lot actually; all the way down the Via Appia from Rome.’
‘Enlighten us with your wisdom then.’
‘I believe that there is a straight choice: either the Empire is ruled and held together firmly by one man; or it disintegrates as the legions in the provinces declare their support for any general who feels that his dignitas has been violated in return for him providing them with the best land available. If that were to happen then we’d either destroy ourselves completely through civil war and be overrun by Parthia from the East and the barbarian tribes from the North; or the generals would fight each other to a standstill and the Empire would break up into its constituent parts: Italia, Illyria and Greece, for example, then Gaul and Hispania, perhaps Africa, Asia and Egypt and so on – much as what happened to Alexander’s Empire. They’d all be ruled by Romans but, like Alexander’s successors, would always be fighting amongst themselves until they too would be swallowed up, in the same way that we and the Parthians gradually ate away at the Successor States.’
‘How come you know so much about history all of a sudden?’ Sabinus was incredulous.
‘Because recently, brother, instead of spending all my spare time on top of a lovely young wife, I’ve been making use of our grandmother’s and Uncle Gaius’ extensive libraries; it may not be as exhausting but it’s just as stimulating.’
Sabinus grunted.
‘But what happens when the man who’s supposed to be holding the Empire together goes mad?’ Corbulo asked. ‘As Tiberius seems to have done and Caligula almost certainly will if he inherits?’
‘Well, that’s what I’ve been thinking about,’ Vespasian replied. ‘If you accept the fact that the Empire needs an Emperor then you have to ask yourself how you choose him. As much as I like Caligula, his conduct last night was disillusioning and unacceptable. His obvious inability to discern appropriate behaviour makes him the worst possible person to hand unfettered power – but he’s in line for it purely because he comes from the imperial family.’
‘So do away with the imperial family?’ Magnus suggested with a grin.
‘Do away with the idea that the Emperor is succeeded by one of his family,’ Corbulo said, nodding.
‘Exactly. Look at the choices there are left to Tiberius from within his family: Caligula, Claudius or Tiberius Gemellus; which one would you want as your master?’
‘None of them,’ Sabinus answered wearily.
‘So the Emperor should choose the best man in Rome to succeed him and adopt him as his son, for the sake of Rome not for the sake of his loyalty to his family. Then the idea of an imperial family – and the dynastic power struggles within it – would disappear for ever and, provided the right choices are made, we would be ruled by a man who can handle absolute power.’
‘That all sounds very worthy, master,’ Pallas observed, ‘but how would you persuade the imperial family to release their grip on power?’
‘That’s the problem, I don’t know,’ Vespasian admitted.
‘There’ll be another war,’ Corbulo said gloomily. ‘Rome won’t take someone like Caligula as Emperor for long.’
‘Well, if there is,’ Vespasian said hopefully, ‘whoever eventually emerges as the victor would do well to follow that policy: forget the idea of forging a dynasty and adopt the most able man as his son and heir.’
‘But what happens, master,’ Pallas asked shrewdly, ‘when by far and away the most able man in Rome is the new Emperor’s own son?’
The door opened before Vespasian could answer and Clemens walked in. ‘The Emperor has summoned you to his study,’ he said almost apologetically. ‘I’m afraid that means your presence here will no longer be secret.’
‘What proof does she have?’ Tiberius, waving Antonia’s letter, demanded the instant they were let into his spacious study by a quizzical-looking German imperial bodyguard. Caligula was sitting on a window seat with his eyes closed, enjoying the warm sun on his face, seemingly without a care in the world.
Pallas took the lead as the door closed behind them. ‘Princeps, that list is in Sejanus’ own handwriting.’
Tiberius picked up the list, looked closely at it and then threw it back down on to the marble-topped desk. ‘It may well be but it’s just a list of names, it’s not proof.’
‘Nuncle, if everyone on that list were dead then who would be Emperor?’ Caligula asked mildly without opening his eyes. ‘No one from our family, that’s for sure.’
‘But Sejanus is going to be one of our family; I gave him permission to become betrothed to Livilla, my daughter-in-law.’
‘I know, Nuncle, and you were so right to do that,’ Caligula said soothingly, ‘but perhaps it was a little bit rash. You told me yourself that you were worried about him; that’s why you sent him away to be Consul.’
‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ Tiberius gazed at a large pornographic picture adorning the wall between his desk and the window, as if he was reverting to the state that he had been in when he had first looked at Vespasian. ‘But I need to be sure, I need to be sure; he keeps me safe, so safe, and takes so much of the load that I bear off my shoulders.’
‘Princeps, may I speak?’ Sabinus asked nervously.
Tiberius did not respond for a few moments but then turned his rheumy eyes to Sabinus; he suddenly jolted. ‘Titus Flavius Sabinus of the Ninth Hispana, a good man. Yes, yes, speak.’
Sabinus told the Emperor of his discovery of the discrepancy in the mint and how the chests of denarii had ended up in Thracia.
Tiberius did not seem to be listening but as Sabinus petered out to what he feared was a flat ending to his story the Emperor became quite alert again.
‘So who saw this money in Thracia?’ he asked, looking around the room.
‘I did, Princeps,’ Corbulo volunteered.
Tiberius looked shocked for a moment, as if he had not noticed Corbulo before. ‘Who are you?’ he snapped. ‘When did you arrive?’
‘Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo, Princeps,’ Corbulo replied proudly.
‘You were a praetor early on in my reign. Never made Consul, though,’ Tiberius responded.
‘That was my father, Princeps,’ Corbulo said, visibly pleased that the Emperor should know the name.
‘Father, eh? You’re the son? Never heard of you,’ Tiberius said crushingly. ‘Well, tell me what you saw.’
Corbulo gave his account, mentioning Hasdro’s and Rhoteces’ part but, as instructed, not Poppaeus’.
Tiberius looked at him dully when he had finished. ‘So what were you doing in Thracia?’
‘I was a tribune on Poppaeus’ staff.’
Tiberius seemed uninterested. ‘And who else saw this?’ he asked dismissively, as if Corbulo’s word was worth nothing.
‘I did, Princeps,’ Vespasian said.
‘Ah, my sweet’s friend,’ Tiberius crooned. ‘My sweet, your friend says he saw a box of money given by Sejanus’ freedman to a Thracian tribe to encourage them into rebellion against me.’
‘Then you should believe him, Nuncle,’ Caligula said, still with his eyes closed, ‘he’s a very good friend.’
‘But I do, I do!’ Tiberius was now almost in a state of ecstasy. ‘Yes, I can see that he’s a very good friend indeed.’
‘We have brought the priest with us, Princeps,’ Vespasian ventured, ‘so that you can question him yourself.’
Tiberius’ joy was complete. ‘Ahh, pain,’ he moaned feverishly. ‘Where
is he? Bring him to me.’
Rhoteces’ broken body lay strapped to a sturdy wooden table in the middle of Tiberius’ study. He had just passed out for the second time, his right foot being no more than charred, smouldering bones, some of which had fallen off into the mobile brazier below. The stink of burnt flesh filled the smokeenveloped room; a strong shaft of sunlight cut through the heavy atmosphere and fell on to the contorted priest.
Tiberius had administered the torture himself, taking, as Vespasian had expected, an inordinate amount of pleasure in Rhoteces’ every scream and cry for mercy, as if he was listening to the most beautiful and relaxing music. Although he had told them everything that he knew the moment his foot was placed upon the brazier Tiberius had persisted in his pleasure.
‘So this man says that it was Asinius whom he was working for,’ Tiberius said. He was quite lucid again, looking with deep interest at Rhoteces’ charred foot; he gingerly touched one of the blackened bones and, finding it still scalding hot, withdrew his finger quickly and sucked away the pain.
‘Yes, Princeps,’ Pallas answered, ‘but he described Hasdro perfectly. Hasdro told him that he was working for Asinius to protect his master, Sejanus, in the eventuality that something like . . .’ He paused, and waved his hand at what remained of the foot. ‘Like this should occur.’
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Tiberius agreed, ‘but then what was Poppaeus’ part in this?’ He turned to Corbulo. ‘You, you were on Poppaeus’ staff, did you ever see him with Hasdro?’
‘No, Princeps,’ Corbulo lied; Vespasian could see that it stuck in his craw to do so.
‘Well, I’ll forget about him for the time being,’ Tiberius said to himself, sucking his burnt finger again. ‘But one day he’ll pay for allowing his army to address him as “Imperator” – when he’s no longer of any use to me.’ He looked around suddenly, aware that he had externalised a private thought. ‘So it seems that I was right all along,’ he carried on cheerfully. ‘Sejanus is a traitor. I knew it, but it takes my dear, dear sister-in-law to show me the evidence and you . . .’ He held his arms out, encompassing them all; a look of deep emotion came over his face and Vespasian thought for a moment that he would burst into tears. ‘You brave, brave, loyal men, good men, men with my peace of mind in the forefront of your hearts, you men have risked so much to bring it to me. You will go back to Rome and tell Antonia that I will act at once. Come, we shall all take a walk together.’
Rome's Executioner (Vespasian) Page 31