Rome's executioner v-2

by Robert Fabbri

‘Why?’

  ‘Because I can give her the biggest prize of all. I can give her Sejanus.’

  PART V

  COSA TO CAPREAE, DECEMBER AD 30-MARCH AD 31

  CHAPTER XIIII

  ‘Io, Io, Io, Saturnalia!’ Vespasian and Sabinus cried together as they came through the door of the triclinium at Vespasian’s estate at Cosa, bearing dishes of food.

  ‘Io, io, io Saturnalia,’ the few freedmen and house slaves that were left on the estate, along with Sextus and Marius, replied boisterously.

  They reclined on the three couches around a low table and held their wine cups aloft in a toast to the annual festival of goodwill. All of them had been drinking steadily throughout the afternoon whilst Vespasian, Sabinus and Clementina had, with some help from the kitchen slave, prepared the meal. Vespasian and Sabinus placed the dishes on the table and Clementina did the rounds with the wine jug, replenishing the empty cups that had just been enthusiastically drained.

  The room was decorated with the branches of fir trees and brightly berried holly; everyone within it, whether free, freed or slave, was wearing a brimless conical felt hat: the pileus, the symbol of manumission. All their tunics were brightly coloured, not the normal white, russet or plain undyed wool, but a dazzling array of clashing colours, worn only at this time during the year: the six-day-long festival of Saturn. This was the climax of the festival; the day when the household was turned upside down and masters waited on slaves and freedmen and they, in return, were allowed to be disrespectful (but not blatantly rude) back.

  The diners surveyed the dishes of grilled fish with fennel and whole, roast suckling kid with a plum and caper sauce and made appreciative sounds.

  ‘That looks a lot better than the slop your wizened old grandmother used to turn out after her annual foray into the kitchen; if she could find it,’ Attalus, Tertulla’s steward and sparring companion, observed. ‘But I don’t suppose you spoilt young brats can remember the horrors of the old bat’s cooking?’

  ‘And I’ve no doubt that you let her know your exact feelings each year as she presented it, Attalus,’ Vespasian replied, laughing at the description of his grandmother by the one man who had probably loved her more than he.

  ‘On the contrary, boy, as you should remember.’ Attalus grinned as he again drained his cup. ‘Because I was allowed to be disrespectful to her over the Saturnalia it wasn’t nearly so much fun, so I used to be deferential, compliant and meek instead. The perfect slave, in other words. Six days of that used to drive her mad; she could never wait for the festival to be over. I sometimes think that she used to make her “King for the day” feast awful on purpose, just to get me to make a sarcastic remark about it; but I never did, I ate every morsel of the ghastly swill that the daft old cow put in front of me. An act of genius, but then, I was always far more clever than any of your family.’ He held his cup in the air and waved it at Clementina. ‘Fill this up, wench, to the brim, just like you’ve been.’

  Raucous laughter broke out around the room; Clementina reddened but smiled as she automatically put her hand on her swollen belly, and hurried around the table to serve him.

  Sabinus bristled slightly but managed to join in the laughter; the comment had not been malicious and was well within the spirit of the Saturnalia, which he still enjoyed despite his new religion; he now looked on it as a prelude to the solemnity of celebrating the birth of Mithras in a few days’ time. ‘If you think that those two dishes look edible, Attalus,’ he cried, ‘just wait until you see the others. I think that even a starving Gallic sailor who’d been at sea for a month would shy at them.’

  This brought another round of rowdy laughter; Gauls were not known for their nautical abilities or their culinary skills.

  ‘Clementina, my dear, would you distribute the gifts whilst we fetch the remaining dishes?’ Sabinus asked, pointing to a collection of wax candles, earthenware figurines and the pile of new tunics on a table in the corner of the room.

  Clementina smiled prettily at her husband. ‘My pleasure, Sabinus.’

  Sabinus smiled back at his new wife and left the room.

  Vespasian followed him out, full of of seasonal wellbeing. He had always loved the Saturnalia; it cheered him up, which was exactly what it had been designed for when it had been first brought in almost 250 years before to bring joy to the Roman people after the disastrous defeat at Lake Trasimene at the hands of Hannibal, where over fifteen thousand Roman sons, brothers and fathers had been killed. It had originally been just a one-day celebration but had grown over the years. Humourists suggested that because the year after Trasimene over fifty thousand Romans were killed at Cannae an extra day was added to cheer people up even more.

  Vespasian did not know the truth of the matter but enjoyed the macabre wit. He was pleased to have his spirits lifted; it had been a long and difficult five months at Cosa. He had not been bored — there had been so much to do around the estate, which had fallen slightly into decline in the two and a half years since Tertulla’s death. Attalus had done his best to keep it running smoothly since but because in her will she had freed all her slaves the estate was undermanned. Some of the newly freed decided to stay on the estate but most had decided to try their luck in Cosa or even Rome. Attalus had bought a few new slaves but had, rightly, been reluctant to make large purchases without Vespasian’s permission. The restocking of the field-slave force had taken up a lot of his time in the first couple of months and then more recently he had been occupied by getting the estate back up to its full capacity before winter slowed down the agricultural life for a few months.

  He had busied himself every day from dawn until dusk working hard at what he knew best; the days had not been the problem, it was the evenings. Since Clemens had brought his sister Clementina to Cosa in August for her marriage to Sabinus, Vespasian had been forced to have dinner every evening with two people who had very quickly fallen in love. The truth of the matter was that, for the first time in his life, he was jealous of his brother. He was jealous of his happiness; he was jealous of his love and how it was returned; he was jealous of him having the woman he loved in his bed every night; he was jealous of everything that Sabinus had because he could not share the same thing with Caenis.

  Antonia had once sent Caenis to Cosa, ostensibly with a message saying that Caligula had arrived on Capreae along with Clemens and that she was awaiting news. However, three months on no news had come and Vespasian was starting to fret about his inactivity; his career was not going to progress so far from Rome, however much he enjoyed farming.

  Caenis had stayed for four days — and nights — but that had been back in September and he had not seen her since. Four days they had had playing man and wife — sharing a walk in the morning, a couch at dinner, a bed at night. He had been grateful to Sabinus and Clementina for treating her as an equal, despite her slave status, without a hint of condescension; but in some ways that had emphasised the problem: no matter how much anyone pretended, she was still a slave and could only ever hope to be freed, never free.

  When Clementina’s pregnancy had been confimed at around the time of his birthday in November, his jealousy had become almost impossible to keep hidden; his brother was having a child with a woman that he loved yet he, Vespasian, could never do the same with Caenis because the child would not be a citizen. He could never marry Caenis because of the Augustan law, the Lex Papia Poppaea, which forbade the union between a freedwoman and a senator; if he was to continue to serve Rome he would be elected as a quaestor, at or after the prescribed age of twenty-four, and, because his uncle was of senatorial class, he would automatically gain a seat in the Senate.

  It was a situation that he could see no way out of short of giving up his career. Since he had first been overwhelmed by the majesty of Rome as viewed from the hill on the Via Salaria, he knew that was something he would never do. So he had no choice but to keep his feelings locked away and busy himself with the estate until Antonia called upon him and Sabinus to fi
nally complete their mission and take Rhoteces to Tiberius.

  This evening, however, he had managed to put all his troubles to one side; it was almost impossible to feel miserable during the Saturnalia, which was exactly what it had been designed for, all those years ago during the dark days of Hannibal’s invasion of Italia.

  Another chorus of ‘Io, io, io, Saturnalia!’ greeted Vespasian and Sabinus as they re-entered the triclinium and set down the two final dishes.

  ‘You weren’t exaggerating, Sabinus,’ Attalus observed, poking his finger into the very sloppy sauce that surrounded an overcooked brace of rabbits. ‘You’ve surpassed your grandmother; the Gallic sailor would also have to be blind and drunk to eat that.’

  ‘Well, you’re already halfway there, Attalus,’ Vespasian laughed, picking up a knife from the table and pointing it at the steward’s face. ‘Would you like me to help you with the other half?’

  ‘You’re most kind, but I must decline as I fear that you would regret the offer in the morning when things get back to normal and you need a numerate person with full use of his eyes to correct all the mistakes that you’ve made in the estate’s account books.’

  ‘Io, io, io, Saturnalia!’ the assembled company shouted, raising their cups.

  With the toast drunk the diners began to tuck into the meal.

  ‘Allow me to serve you, Master Marius,’ Sabinus said, noticing that the one-handed crossroads brother was having difficulty carving off a leg of suckling kid.

  ‘Yeah, he needs a hand,’ Sextus piped up, pleased with the joke that he had made a hundred times before but never tired of.

  ‘It must be the Saturnalia if you’ve got your only joke out, brother,’ Marius responded with a grin as Sabinus placed the leg on his plate. ‘Thank you, Sabinus.’

  ‘No need to thank me, it’s good to be able to do something useful seeing as I can’t even get myself elected as a quaestor.’

  ‘Io, io, io, Saturnalia!’ everyone roared in response to this unusual piece of self-deprecation. Vespasian joined in. He had, at first, been surprised by how well Sabinus had taken his failure in the elections — especially as he, Vespasian, had on more than one occasion mentioned that his friend Paetus, now back in Rome, had come top of the list — but then, observing the regularity with which his brother consoled himself for the defeat in the arms of his new young bride, he began to think that for Sabinus it had come as a relief. There were always next year’s elections and in the meantime he was free to enjoy married life rather than be second in command of some far-away province for a year or more, which was bound to be his fate — the plum jobs in the city being reserved for men of Paetus’ lineage.

  The meal gradually petered out as the diners got more and more drunk; eventually they had all passed out on their couches or under them. The brothers and Clementina left them to their noisy slumber, surrounded by the debris of the meal; the Saturnalia did not extend to the masters clearing and washing up, that was something that the diners would have to do, with raging hangovers, when they returned to their normal roles early the next morning.

  Sabinus led Clementina off to their bedroom, his grin assuring Vespasian of the night of consolation ahead of him, leaving Vespasian alone. Since it was still early and he was not yet tired he decided to go to his study and carry on working through the surprising amount of history books and historical documents that his grandmother had left him. As he crossed the atrium a loud knock sounded on the front door. In the absence of the doorkeeper — drunk in a pool of his own vomit on the floor in the triclinium — he opened it himself.

  ‘Good evening, sir, did I miss the party?’

  ‘Magnus!’ Vespasian exclaimed, surprised and pleased to see his friend. ‘Yes, I’m afraid that you did.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Magnus stepped into the vestibule, shaking off his cloak and handing it to Vespasian with a grin. ‘Never mind, it’s still Saturnalia so you can make up for it by pouring me a drink once you’ve hung this up.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ll have that drink first, boy.’

  Vespasian rolled his eyes; perhaps Saturnalia did last just a bit too long.

  ‘Not until March?’ Vespasian exclaimed.

  ‘At the very earliest,’ Magnus replied.

  They were sitting in Vespasian’s small but cosy study; a mobile brazier in the corner glowed red, giving out a pleasing amount of heat. A jug of wine and a couple of oil lamps stood on the desk between them.

  ‘What’s the delay for?’

  Magnus took a gulp of wine, spilling a bit down his tunic, and set his cup down. ‘I don’t know the exact details, sir, but it’s something to do with Satrius Secundus.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Well, when we got him back to Antonia he spent an hour closeted with her and Pallas in her study. I was waiting outside because she’d asked me to… wait, if you take my meaning?’

  Vespasian smirked. ‘Yes, I do, you old goat.’

  ‘Well, so when she comes out she looks at me and smiles and says: “I’ve really got him now.”’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That was it. She doesn’t talk to me that much, just tells me what to do, you know, orders and such.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine,’ Vespasian replied, trying not to. ‘So Secundus has given her something on Sejanus that she believes will really convince the Emperor of his treachery?’

  ‘It looks that way; she was certainly in a very good mood that evening,’ Magnus replied, grimacing slightly. ‘But I don’t know what it is. I tried asking Pallas, but you know what he’s like, he wouldn’t disclose a confidence even if his own mother was being nailed to a burning cross with a pitch-soaked, wooden stake up-’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Vespasian interrupted, not liking the image even before it was completed. ‘What about Caligula?’

  ‘Antonia told me to tell you that he’s worked out a way of getting us on to the island.’

  ‘Well, tell me then.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘No you haven’t. What is it?’

  ‘Ah, I don’t know that part; she just said to say that he’s found a way, she didn’t say what it was, she doesn’t…’

  ‘Talk to you much, I know.’

  ‘No, exactly. Still, you can ask her yourself very soon, if you want.’

  ‘How? I’m going to be staying here until at least March.’

  ‘If you do, you’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘What are you talking about now? I thought that it was safer for me to stay out of Rome for the time being.’

  ‘Well, Antonia said to tell you that she thinks that it’s safe for you to come back. Sejanus is to be Tiberius’ colleague as Consul in the New Year and has been given permission to become betrothed to Livilla.’

  Vespasian frowned and took a sip of wine. ‘How does that make me safe?’

  ‘Because he’s feeling secure, he thinks that he’s now untouchable and is pursuing vendettas against people who’ve crossed him in the past rather than worrying about Antonia’s plans for him in the future. He hasn’t made any more attempts on your uncle, who’s been back in his own house for the last three months. And as you may already know, they left your estate at Aquae Cutillae alone after they found the pyres. Antonia thinks that you and Sabinus are both — how did she put it? — “too small a pair of fish for Sejanus to have noticed”.’

  ‘That’s very comforting, I’m sure. So why will I be in trouble if I stay here?’

  ‘Because Antonia and Senator Pollo have managed to get you a position.’

  ‘What sort of position?’

  ‘Now that is a silly question,’ Magnus said, draining his cup and helping himself to more. ‘On the next rung of the ladder, of course; one of the twenty junior magistrates, the Vigintiviri.’

  Vespasian’s eyes lit up; he had not been expecting to be able to further his career until Antonia had won her struggle with Sejanus. But now, if she thought that it was safe for him to return to
Rome and take another step up the cursus honorum he would grab the chance. He would be closer to Caenis and would not have to have his brother’s happiness shoved down his throat all the time.

  ‘That’s excellent news.’

  ‘Well, yes and no, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s the least popular position.’

  ‘Not working for the aedile in charge of roads?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. You’re going to be one of the triumviri capitales.’

  Vespasian groaned; he knew what that entailed.

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ Magnus said sympathetically, ‘one of the three men in charge of book-burnings and executions.’

  CHAPTER XV

  ‘My dear boy, you’re as white as your toga,’ Gaius boomed in alarm as an attractive new doorkeeper let Vespasian in through the front door of his house.

  ‘That’s because again today my service to Rome amounted to nothing more than cold-blooded murder,’ Vespasian replied, irritably brushing off the attentions of one of Gaius’ many new young German slave boys.

  ‘Aenor, bring some wine,’ Gaius ordered the young lad, who immediately scuttled off to do his master’s bidding. ‘Come and sit down, Vespasian.’

  ‘The irony of it all is that for the last three months I’ve been doing the dirty work for someone whom I’m meant to be helping Antonia try to destroy,’ Vespasian said, taking a seat next to the impluvium in Gaius’ spacious atrium. The fountain’s continuous tinkling helped to calm Vespasian as Gaius sat down opposite him and Aenor served them their wine.

  ‘So whom did Sejanus get today?’ Gaius asked once the boy had been dismissed with a hearty slap on the arse.

  ‘I forget his name,’ Vespasian replied, taking a long slug of wine and savouring its delicate taste with his eyes shut and shaking his head slowly. ‘He was an equestrian who had business connections in Egypt; apparently he had defrauded Sejanus’ father, Strabo, shortly before he died, whilst he was the prefect of that province.’