The Furies of Rome

by Robert Fabbri

  But, should that line fail, what then? If the Emperor were to die childless whence would a new emperor come?

  It had been to this end that Vespasian had been instrumental in bringing about a state of war, still continuing, between Rome and Parthia over the nominally autonomous kingdom of Armenia. The war was seen by the powers behind the throne as a good thing to help secure the young Emperor Nero’s position and Vespasian wanted Nero’s position to be secure; he wanted Nero to rule for some time because he had a suspicion, no, it was more than a suspicion, it was a feeling bordering on certainty, that Nero would run to excesses that would make the depravities of his predecessors seem as mere foibles to be shrugged off with indulgence. If that were to be the case then Vespasian doubted that Rome would tolerate another emperor from the same unstable family. And so to whom would Rome look to fill that position? The candidate would have to be of consular rank with a proven military record and there were many men in Rome like that, Vespasian included; but, Vespasian had reasoned, if it were to be someone like him then why not him?

  And that was what Vespasia was taking to her grave: the confirmation, or not, of Vespasian’s suspicions; and he knew that even if she did regain consciousness he would never be able to get her to change her mind.

  ‘Master?’ A voice intruded into his inner thoughts.

  Vespasian turned; his slave stood silhouetted in the doorway. ‘What is it, Hormus?’

  ‘Pallo sent me to tell you that your brother has arrived.’

  ‘Thank Mars for that. Have our finest white bullock prepared for sacrifice as soon as Sabinus and my uncle have seen my mother.’

  ‘Your uncle, master?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There must be a misunderstanding; it’s just your brother arriving, your uncle is not with him.’

  Although the atrium of the main house on the Flavian estate at Aquae Cutillae benefited from the underfloor heating of a hypocaust and, despite a raging log fire in the hearth, the chamber still felt chill after the warmth of Vespasia’s dying-chamber. Vespasian rubbed his arms as he followed Hormus across the floor, decorated with a pastoral mosaic illustrating the various ways that the family supported itself through working the land. Before they reached the front door, Pallo, the aged estate steward, came in from outside and held it open for Sabinus, dusty and dishevelled from travel.

  ‘Is she still here?’ Sabinus asked without any pleasantries.

  Vespasian turned and fell in step with his brother. ‘Just.’

  ‘Well, just is good enough. I don’t think I’ve ever made the journey from Rome in such quick time.’

  ‘Did you leave Uncle Gaius behind you on the road?’

  Sabinus shook his head as they passed through the tablinum, the study at the far end of the atrium, and then on out into the courtyard garden. ‘I’m afraid not; he wasn’t well enough to make the journey.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  Sabinus looked at his brother as they paused outside Vespasia’s room, his eyes full of concern; although whether that was due to their mother’s imminent death or their uncle’s illness, Vespasian could not tell. ‘I’ll tell you after we’ve watched Mother …’ He left the sentence unfinished; they were both only too well aware of what they were going to watch their mother do.

  Vespasian opened the door and allowed Sabinus to step in first; as Vespasian followed, Vespasia surprised them both by opening her eyes. Her lips twitched into a weak smile. ‘My boys,’ she croaked, ‘I knew that I would see you both together before the end.’

  The brothers went to her bedside, Sabinus taking the chair and Vespasian standing at his shoulder.

  Vespasia reached out a hand to each of her sons. ‘I’m proud of your achievements for our family; the house of Flavius is now a name to be remembered.’ She paused for a couple of uneven, wheezed breaths, her eyes flickering between open and closed; neither Vespasian nor Sabinus attempted to interrupt her. ‘But it does not stop here, my sons; Mars has spoken. Sabinus, I’ve left a letter for you safe in Pallo’s care; take it, read it and act upon it when you see fit.’ Another struggle for breath made the siblings hold theirs until she managed to carry on: ‘Although I won’t release you from the oath you made all those years ago, the secondary oath that your father made you both swear, not just before Mars but before all of the gods including Mithras, to help each other does, as he rightly claimed, supersede it should it become necessary.’ Her hands squeezed those of her sons as her frail frame was wracked by a series of coughs, each more rasping than the previous.

  Vespasian raised a cup of water to her lips and she drank, immediately gaining relief.

  ‘And it will become necessary, Sabinus,’ Vespasia continued, her voice markedly weaker. ‘Because you will need to guide your brother.’ She fixed her watery eyes on Vespasian. ‘And you, Vespasian, will need to be guided. Indecision could be fatal.’

  ‘I believe that I know the contents of the prophecy, Mother,’ Vespasian ventured. ‘It’s that—’

  ‘Don’t try to guess, Vespasian,’ Vespasia cut in, her voice now barely more than a whisper. ‘And certainly never make your thoughts public; indeed, the fact that there were portentous omens at your naming ceremony should never even be admitted outside the family. You may think that you can guess at the meaning, but I tell you, you can’t. There were three livers, three different signs; I’ve written them all down in Sabinus’ letter to refresh his mind as he was so young at the time.’ Her eyes closed with the effort of speech, but she pressed on. ‘It’s what, when and, most importantly, how.’

  ‘Then tell me now, Mother.’

  Vespasia seemed to consider that for a few moments as she laboured to draw more breaths. ‘To do that would be to tempt the gods. For a man to know the exact course, timing and mode of his destiny would mean that his decisions would be shaped by something other than his own desires and fears; it would unbalance him and ultimately bring him down. A prophecy made is not necessarily a prophecy completed.’

  ‘I know,’ Vespasian said, thinking back to what Myrddin, the immortal druid of Britannia, had said to him when he had tried to kill him. ‘A man can always accept death voluntarily.’

  ‘A man can also push too hard for the fulfilment of a prophecy. By trying to make it so he can alter the timeframe so that the various factors that are needed to bring it about are no longer in conjunction and so therefore the whole thing can never be. I made all the witnesses swear that oath for two reasons: firstly so that it would never reach the ears of those who would jealously guard their position and, secondly, to prevent you from knowing the details in order that you would always follow your instincts rather than a course that you thought had been fabricated for you; that way would have ended in failure and death.’ Vespasia opened her eyes, the strain of her many words showing in them and telling also in the shallowness of her breathing. ‘What you may suspect will come to pass may indeed be so, Vespasian; but it’s Sabinus who holds the key as to how and when. And to prevent you from acting precipitously he will guard that knowledge until such time that he deems you ready to receive it, using the oath that your father made you swear to each other. You are bound together now, my sons; now that I am gone, only between the two of you will you have the power to make this family one of the great families of Rome.’

  Vespasia’s eyes ranged slowly from one son to the other and, as the siblings met her gaze, they both bowed their heads in acknowledgement of her wishes; whilst they did so they felt her grip on their hands strengthen a fraction and then release. When they raised their heads again, they met with the blank eyes of the corpse that had been their mother.

  ‘I’ll not! I’ll not go! She was never nice to me.’ Domitian faced his parents, standing in the tablinum, looking up at them, defiant, his fists clenched, ready to strike. Phyllis, his nursemaid, stood behind him with a hand on each of his shoulders.

  ‘You mean she tried to discipline you,’ Vespasian said, attempting to keep his voice level in the
face of such insubordination from his youngest son, ‘which is exactly what I will do if you refuse to go and pay your respects to the body of your grandmother.’

  ‘You’re going to thrash me anyway for what I did this afternoon, so why should I?’

  ‘I’ll thrash you twice as hard and for twice as long if you don’t.’

  The child responded to this threat in an age-old fashion: he stuck out his tongue and then tried to wriggle free of his nursemaid’s clutches. Phyllis, although no more than twenty, was wise to the tricks of young boys and had the child by the hair before he had gone two paces.

  ‘Bring him here,’ Vespasian said, unbuckling the belt about his waist.

  Phyllis, sturdy and with an attitude that would brook no nonsense from children, hauled the writhing Domitian over to his father who pointed at a table. ‘On that.’

  Grappling with the twisting child, Phyllis managed to manoeuvre him so that he lay on his belly on the table; she had him pinned down by the shoulders, in what was almost a wrestling move, but his legs were free to kick. But Vespasian did not care, such was his anger with his son; it was an anger that was not novel, due to Domitian’s constant wilfulness. He wrapped the buckle end of the belt about his right wrist, grasped the other end in his hand, doubling it over, and caught the flaying legs with his other hand, holding them down. With the combined grief of mourning a mother and the outrage at his child for refusing to show due respect to her in death, he thrashed Domitian until the boy’s howls brought concern to Flavia’s eyes and he restrained himself.

  Panting, Vespasian lowered the belt. There was a giggle from behind him and he turned around to see his daughter, Domitilla, peering through the curtains that separated the room from the atrium.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ Domitilla said, favouring him with a radiant smile that put him in mind of Flavia when he had first met her in Cyrenaica, ‘that served the little beast right.’

  Crowded around the body in the death-chamber, Vespasian stood with Sabinus, Flavia and his three children – Domitian snivelling quietly and Titus, his eldest son, still in his hunting clothes – in contemplation of the deceased, who remained exactly as she had died, untouched until the ritual of death could commence. Outside the room all the family’s freedmen and slaves had gathered in the dusk-swathed courtyard garden, ready to play their part in the lamentation.

  After a respectable period of reflection, Sabinus, as the eldest blood relative present, stepped forward and knelt down next to Vespasia. ‘May your spirit pass,’ he whispered before leaning over her, kissing her lips and then pulling the palm of his hand over her eyes, closing them for the last time, thus sealing the passing of the spirit. ‘Vespasia Polla!’ Sabinus cried, ‘Vespasia Polla!’

  Vespasian and the rest of the family joined in the calling of the deceased’s name and were soon followed by the men in the household outside as the women began to wail in grief, the sound echoing around the house as it grew in intensity and conviction.

  Vespasian shouted himself almost hoarse calling his mother’s name, but to no avail as she had already begun her final journey and was now beyond hearing.

  When Sabinus deemed the grieving to be sufficient, he got back to his feet and placed his hands under the arms of the corpse as Vespasian took hold of the ankles; between them they lifted Vespasia from the bed and laid her on the ground. This final duty done, the menfolk left the corpse in the charge of Flavia and Domitilla, along with the rest of the women for washing and anointing before being dressed in her finest attire and then brought into the atrium to lie in state with her feet pointing towards the front door.

  ‘So it’s to be tomorrow then,’ Magnus, Vespasian’s friend of many years despite their very different social status, said as Sabinus concluded the final prayer at the household altar in the atrium, having placed a coin under the tongue of his dead mother.

  ‘Yes,’ Vespasian replied, pulling down the fold of his toga with which he had covered his head during the religious ceremony. ‘Pallo is going to have the slaves work all night to build a pyre for her and assemble her tomb.’

  Magnus’ lined and battered face, moulded over sixty-eight years, creased into a questioning aspect; his left eye, a crude glass replica, stared at Vespasian with the same intensity as his real one. ‘Assemble her tomb? Do you mean you’ve already commissioned it? Before she was even dead?’

  ‘Well, yes, evidently, otherwise the slaves wouldn’t be able to put it together tonight.’

  ‘Wasn’t that a bit previous, if you don’t mind me saying, sir? I mean, what if she had got better? Might it not have looked as if you were actually hoping that she would die and were so keen on the idea that you’d got everything ready because you couldn’t wait?’

  ‘Of course not; a lot of people order tombs in advance because you can get a better price from the stonemasons if you’re not in a hurry for it.’

  Magnus scratched his grey hair and sucked the air through his teeth, nodding his ironic understanding. ‘Ah, I see, economising in death; very wise. After all, she was only your mother; you wouldn’t want her to cause you too much unnecessary expense now, would you?’

  Vespasian smiled, used to his friend’s criticisms of his use – or lack of it – of his purse. ‘It makes no difference to my mother whether her ashes are placed tomorrow in a tomb or if they hang about in the casket for four or five days while a stonemason builds exactly the same tomb for twice the money.’

  ‘I’m sure it don’t,’ Magnus agreed as the rest of the family started to make their way, past Vespasia’s body seemingly at sleep on her bier, to the triclinium where the household slaves waited to serve dinner. ‘But perhaps propriety should occasionally take precedence over thrift, at least in matters concerning the death of family members; you don’t want to set a bad example to the next generation as we’re none of us getting any younger, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘Oh, I do, indeed; and if by that you’re implying that my children might not give me the respect that I deserve in death then you’re wrong: Titus and Domitilla will do me proud with my tomb.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I ordered it at the same time as I ordered my mother’s and got a discount for commissioning two at once!’

  Magnus could not help laughing at his friend’s self-admitted parsimony. ‘I notice you didn’t include Domitian in the list of children doing you proud in death.’

  Vespasian shook his head with regret as he looked over to his youngest son being led, firmly by the wrist, off to his room by Phyllis, his protests falling on deaf ears as all the family were now as used to them as they were to the spatter of the fountain in the impluvium. ‘I mustn’t write him off but I can’t see how he’ll ever have respect for anyone or anything that doesn’t in some immediate way benefit him.’

  ‘I’d have thought that was an attitude to be proud of in a son; it’d hint at a ruthless ambition.’

  ‘Normally I would agree with you, Magnus; why should anyone waste time on something that was going to prove of no use to them? However, you will have noticed that I used the word “immediate” and I’m afraid that is what Domitian’s real fault is: if the gain is not immediate then he doesn’t see the point of it. He has no patience and cannot take a long view. In other words, there is no innate cunning for planning and manoeuvring, which is one of the main requisites for success and survival in society; without that he doesn’t stand much chance.’

  Magnus took a moment in sombre thought before turning his one good eye to Vespasian. ‘Do you want to know why I sent Domitian back to the house this afternoon?’

  ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘It’ll probably make you angry, but yes, I think you should; but don’t punish the boy for it.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  Magnus gestured with his head to Titus to come and join them. ‘Tell your father what your younger brother did this afternoon.’

  Titus, now eighteen and the image of his father with a powerful ch
est, a round face with a dominant nose, large ears and eyes that normally twinkled with good humour, looked worried.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Vespasian assured him, ‘I’m not going to do anything about it.’

  Titus seemed dubious. ‘Well, if you’re sure. It’s hard to say exactly how it came about but we’d been out hunting for a good three hours without a scent of anything and Domitian was being his usual self, complaining that the dogs weren’t trying hard enough, our horses were too slow, the slaves too loud and Magnus was useless at hunting and kept on making the wrong decisions and going the wrong way. Suddenly Castor and Pollux raised their muzzles in the air, got a scent and then bounded off up the hill covered with scrub just beyond the lower pasture.’

  ‘A good place for deer to hide in if they’ve been disturbed on our grazing,’ Vespasian commented.

  ‘Indeed, Father, which is why we went back there, having had no luck the first time around. Anyway, sure enough, a buck and his two does broke from cover and raced on up the hill with the dogs howling in pursuit. But one of the does was heavily pregnant and soon fell behind and Castor and Pollux were on her before Magnus could call them off in order to leave us with a clean kill. Magnus got there quickly and hauled his dogs away but the doe had a lot of bite injuries and the stress had put her into labour.’ Titus glanced at Magnus, who urged him on with a nod. ‘Well, neither Magnus nor I could kill the doe whilst she was giving birth, it just didn’t seem right, I don’t know why, so we withdrew a bit and waited as nature took its course. Eventually the thing was done and the fawn was tottering around whilst its mother, despite her wounds, licked it clean. So we decided that the best thing to do was to let the pair go and hope that they would both provide good sport in the future.’