‘No matter,’ Pallas said, clasping his hands behind his back and leading them further away from the villa, ‘a little gratitude is better than none at all; and you all have things to be grateful to me for.’
‘You’ve always been very good to our family,’ Gaius said, sweating as he tried to keep up with the leisurely pace.
‘That is because you never disdained to talk to me when I was merely a slave.’
‘There’s never been anything “mere” about you, my friend.’
‘I have moved in the highest circles all my life, I grant you that. I made my patron, the Lady Antonia’s son Claudius, emperor and secured his position and it was I who manoeuvred that ungrateful, untalented and unhinged deluded maniac, Nero, into succeeding him. I now see that was a mistake as, despite my … er … helping to free, shall we say, myself and him at the same time from his mother, Agrippina, I have not been allowed back into a position of influence. And now he demands my death and nine tenths of my property; well, he’s welcome to it. Forty million sesterces will be ample for my wife and two children to live on.’
‘Wife?’ Vespasian questioned.
‘Children!’ Gaius exclaimed.
Vespasian was astounded. ‘I never knew you had a wife.’
‘Well, you never asked and I never brought them to Rome as it’s best not to advertise a weak spot; this villa was the closest they ever came. But they are the reason that I’ve asked you here: I want you to look out for them after I’m gone. My two boys are eight and ten; they’re both freeborn citizens of Rome and with even an equal share of just a tenth of my fortune will easily qualify for senatorial status. My wife will bring them to you for an introduction when they each come of age. Help them up the Cursus Honorum; if my hunch is right then you will be the best placed to do that.’
‘What do you mean?’ Vespasian asked, playing the innocent.
‘Let’s just say that Nero won’t last for ever: I’m sure that you’ve noticed Nero’s appointment as the second prefect of the Praetorian Guard; things have now started to move. When my mistress, Antonia, gave you her father’s sword, the sword that she had promised to give to whichever of her grandsons she thought would make the best emperor, I think she had made a shrewd guess.’
Vespasian remained non-committal. ‘Claudius took that from me in Britannia.’
‘I know, I was there. But now you can have it back.’ He reached under his toga, unhitched and then brought out the sword of Marcus Antonius, once the greatest man in Rome.
‘Thank you, Pallas,’ was all that Vespasian could manage as he took the perfectly balanced weapon in its battered scabbard from the freedman; it was the sword of a fighting man and not that of a parade-ground soldier.
‘Use it well.’
Vespasian went to say something but Pallas held up a hand, stopping him. ‘Just look after my sons and acquit yourself well in Africa.’
‘Africa!’ Gaius exclaimed, jowls a-wobble.
‘I’ve deposited the necessary funds with the Cloelius Brothers in the Forum in your name.’ He addressed Caenis. ‘Who will take over from Seneca?’
‘It’ll be Epaphroditus.’
Pallas nodded. ‘I thought as much; get in with him early, Vespasian, tomorrow at the wedding, if possible, and Africa will be yours next year. He’s Nero’s freedman so has the influence; and you never know, you might not need to use a cash incentive in the negotiations.’
Vespasian wondered if Nero’s nuptials were the right place to make such a deal but agreed, nonetheless.
‘Gaius,’ Pallas continued, ‘I know you’ve been disappointed in your ambitions for the consulship.’
Gaius dismissed the comment with a gesture. ‘Not enough push in my youth and entirely forgotten about now.’
‘And an opportunity for enrichment missed; go with Vespasian to the Cloelius Brothers and you will find that redressed, as will you, Magnus, to a lesser degree. Both bankers’ drafts are, like Vespasian’s, in your own names and therefore cannot be traced to me; so they are safe from Nero.’ As Gaius and Magnus both expressed their thanks, Pallas turned to Caenis. ‘I know the currency that you prefer, so you’ll find the reason why I told you to bring a carriage already loaded into it when you leave, which I’m going to ask you all to do now as I wish to spend my final couple of hours with my sons and my wife.’ He indicated to three figures seated beneath a pergola some distance away. ‘I wish you all a better end than mine.’ He embraced Caenis and then took Magnus’, Gaius’ and then Vespasian’s forearms in a firm grip. As he turned away towards where his family were seated, Vespasian got one final glimpse of his face and, as always, it remained neutral.
The crucifixions had been completed as the carriage passed back up the road towards the city gates and now there were but a few Urban Cohort soldiers on duty to deter anyone from trying to cut down the agonised wretches hanging off their nails. A few gawkers gaped in fascination at the smaller bodies on the crosses and some children, laughing, pelted a victim their own age with faeces and stones, making his wails even more pitiful; the soldiers did nothing to halt this but, rather, smiled benevolently at the gang’s antics. But Vespasian, Caenis and Gaius hardly noticed the suffering as Magnus drove them past, too busy were they with Pallas’ gift to Caenis.
‘In one crate he has given me power over so many people,’ Caenis said, scanning a scroll. ‘This one details Pallas’ dealings with Seneca when they colluded over Agrippina’s murder.’
Vespasian shook his head in disbelief. ‘This one is about how Pallas secured Tigellinus his post as prefect of the Vigiles in exchange for information on Seneca and Burrus which he is still receiving. So that’s how he seemed to know that Seneca was trying to get out.’
‘Is there anything of interest to me?’ Magnus asked over his shoulder.
‘I’m afraid that Pallas moved in far higher circles than you, my friend,’ Gaius said unrolling a scroll.
‘And yet he was a slave and then a freedman and I am a freeborn citizen; I sometimes wonder if it is time to have a little tinker with the system, if you take my meaning?’
No one did.
‘Dear boy,’ Gaius wheezed, ‘this one’s for you, if Caenis would let you have it.’ He handed the scroll to Vespasian who read it with Caenis leaning over his shoulder.
‘So that’s what he meant when he said that I might not need cash for the negotiations with Epaphroditus; this details how Pallas blackmailed Nero’s freedman to pass on information about the Emperor’s intimate habits by threatening to reveal that he was already doing the same for Seneca.’
‘Give that to me, my love,’ Caenis said. ‘I think that I can use this best.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Vespasian handed Caenis the scroll and grinned at his uncle. ‘I think that I might almost enjoy Nero’s wedding tomorrow, after all.’
The ode to love growled on. All stood, sat or reclined transfixed in an act of adoration that the élite of Rome now performed to perfection, so used had they become to hearing their Emperor sing.
And none performed it better than Poppaea Sabina: her eyes never left her new husband, sitting next to her, grating out his own composition whilst accompanying himself on the lyre, which he had mastered with the same degree of aptitude as the voice. One hand on her swelling belly and the other resting on Nero’s thigh, she gazed at him with the fervour of a devout worshipper in the presence of the deity and all but swooned at every discord and missed note.
In the midst of the adoring crowd of senators and their wives, Vespasian stood next to Flavia, his eyes constantly straying to her, ensuring that she was keeping control of her feelings as she witnessed the phenomenon of a singing emperor for the first time; despite a couple of winces, he thought she acquitted herself tolerably well. Even Seneca, standing on the other side of her, had dressed his face with a look of wonderment and Faenius Rufus and Calpurnius Piso, beyond him, made efforts not to let their disapproval show. Gaius and Sabinus were both seated next to Vespasian: Sabin
us with his head in his hands so that his face was obscured and Gaius making use of a large handkerchief, mopping up the sweat on his face in a good imitation of one drying tears of joy.
And joy was soon genuine as the last stanza withered and died, instantly forgotten, bringing the ordeal to an end; the audience burst into rapturous applause and Nero wept with the emotion of it all: the wedding ceremony, the consummation of the marriage – with a young boy, looking curiously like Poppaea, standing in for the bride due to her pregnancy – and now the wedding feast which he had opened with the ode, dedicated to himself, that he had spent the last month composing.
As Nero soaked up the adulation, Vespasian glanced over to where Caenis stood next to Epaphroditus and caught her eye; she smiled and inclined her head fractionally. By the look on Epaphroditus’ face, Vespasian could surmise that a financial inducement had not been needed to secure him his province; relief surged through him as he knew that soon he would, once again, be able to escape the fear that all who came in contact with the Emperor were daily subjected to.
‘She’s done it,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth to Flavia.
‘Who’s done what?’
‘Caenis has secured me the province of Africa next year.’
Flavia snorted. ‘Well, if you think that I’ll be accompanying you, think again. I didn’t marry you just to go back to the semi-barbarous place where I was brought up; now I’m in Rome I’m staying here.’
Vespasian did not respond as the arrangement suited him well and he was afraid that he might be unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.
‘My friends,’ Nero rasped, standing and extending his arms as if to embrace all in the high-ceilinged, botanically frescoed chamber, designed to seem as if it were an extension of the gardens blooming beyond the windows. ‘My friends, it grieves me that I do not have the leisure to play for you more but the time has come for you to offer me your gifts in celebration of my marriage and in turn I may grant you a request.’ He signalled to Seneca. ‘My old friend and tutor, you shall be first.’
Seneca stepped from the crowd. ‘Princeps, it is my pleasure, no, my honour, yes honour—’
‘I don’t care what it is, just get to the point.’
‘Yes, Princeps. It is my honour to present you with the total of all my investments in the province of Britannia. Now that you have decided not to abandon the province it is only right that we, your subjects, help in the financial burden that you have placed upon yourself for the good of Rome.’ He handed Nero a scroll. ‘Since the crushing of the revolt I have reinvested much of the money that I had taken out; this is a list of those investments, they are all yours.’
Nero took the list and handed it to Epaphroditus. ‘And what about the money that Decianus took from the Iceni causing the revolt?’
‘I was coming to that, Princeps; the Cloelius Brothers will transfer the five million sesterces, in gold, to the treasury … your treasury in two days.’
Nero’s face lit up, exaggerating the flesh now accumulated on his cheeks. ‘A handsome gift, my friend; and what would you have me grant you as a mark of my favour?’
‘No more than what your great-great-grandfather granted his loyal servants, Marcus Agrippa and Gaius Maecenas: retirement from public life. They had received their rewards, large indeed, that were in line with their service. In my case …’
As Seneca launched into what was obviously a prepared speech, Vespasian steeled himself for his gift, consoling himself with the sure knowledge that if he did not give it then it would soon be taken from him by the Emperor who considered everything within the Empire to be his own personal property.
‘Should you, who have such an abundance of stamina,’ Seneca concluded, ‘and who has, over the years, wielded supreme power effortlessly, allow me my repose in my gardens and country homes then that will be counted to your credit.’ Seneca bowed his head.
Nero struck a pose of magnanimity, one hand extended to the supplicant before him. ‘The fact that I can respond immediately to your prepared speech is what I consider to be your gift to me; you have helped to bring out in me the impromptu as well as the prepared …’
No one in the room was moved to argue as Nero expounded on his own delusional talents, occasionally giving his tutor a peck of credit, all knowing that there was nothing impromptu about the Emperor whatsoever and that this too was a prepared speech.
So the last great farce between Nero and Seneca was played out in public and, as it came to a close and Seneca offered half his remaining wealth to Nero to let him retire peacefully, Nero surprised all by departing from the script: ‘It will not be your moderation that will be on the lips of all if you return the money that you’ve made from exploiting your position, nor will it be your fortunate retirement they will discuss if you take your leave of your Emperor. No, Seneca; rather, it will be my greed in demanding the fortune and fear of my cruelty that made you leave my service that will be spoken of. Your retirement will make me look bad, old friend.’ Nero paused to look at Seneca without a trace of friendship on his face and all in the room knew that the most powerful man in Rome after the Emperor was caught in a prison of his own making: he had no influence and yet could not leave. ‘Surely a philosopher would not want to make a friend look bad?’
Nero opened his arms and Seneca submitted himself to an embrace and kiss.
‘Go,’ Nero commanded, pulling away, ‘and wait until such time as I might find a use for your life.’ A cruel smile. ‘You will hear from me by letter.’
Seneca hung his head. ‘As you wish, Princeps.’ A broken man, he turned and walked back to his place in the crowd.
As Seneca passed, Vespasian asked: ‘Was it worth it? All those lives lost for money that can’t even guarantee your life?’
Seneca paused and looked at him. ‘Guarantee my life? How? How can anyone guarantee their life in this court? We’re dying every day.’
Seneca moved on as Piso, Rufus and the rest of the senators began to come forward with their gifts and then to receive, or not, the boon they asked. Piso and Rufus soon returned to their places, their dislike of the situation becoming evident as their backs were turned to the Emperor. After Gaius had just promised a brace of his Germanic slaves, it was Vespasian’s turn.
Epaphroditus looked at him with loathing as he approached the Emperor and then whispered something in Nero’s ear.
‘Princeps,’ Vespasian said, ‘I have one thing worthy of you.’
‘I know it and you have chosen well, Vespasian; your Arab team will make a fine gift. I was anticipating no less from you. As you have fulfilled my expectations you shall have what I’m informed that you want: you shall have Africa next year.’
‘My thanks, Princeps; I shall serve you and Rome to the best of my ability as governor.’
Turning and trying not to smirk as he caught an outraged-looking Corvinus’ eye, Vespasian took his place next to Flavia who pointedly refused to congratulate him.
‘Well done, dear boy,’ Gaius said as the last few senators began to go forward. ‘Governor of Africa and Urban prefect; things are looking good for our family – if we can survive in this fear.’
‘I shall be hundreds of miles away across the sea, Uncle; I won’t feel the fear for all of next year.’
‘But we shall live with it constantly,’ Sabinus said, ‘and it will intensify as he gets worse. His brother, his mother, the prefect of the Praetorian Guard, countless senators and equestrians and now his former tutor and chief advisor just waiting for the letter demanding his suicide; who next? No one is safe.’
‘Not us if we give him what he wants.’
‘He wants everything.’
‘Then, dear boys,’ Gaius said as Tigellinus entered the room, ‘I suggest we let him have it.’
‘Is he here?’ Nero asked, a look of excitement on his face.
With his snarl-of-a-rabid-dog smile, Tigellinus nodded.
‘Then bring him in!’ As Tigellinus did his Emperor’s b
idding, Nero took Poppaea’s hand. ‘My dearest, your present has arrived.’
‘What is it, husband?’ Poppaea purred. ‘What more can you give me? What more than this child and to make me your wife?’
‘A present born out of love,’ Nero replied as Tigellinus escorted Anicetus into the room; he carried a wooden box. ‘Bring it here, Anicetus.’
Nero took the box, beaming with delight, and, holding it in one hand, pulled open the lid. ‘I give you your security, my dearest.’
Poppaea looked inside and then smiled, cold and cruel; she stuck her hand in and pulled out her wedding gift by the hair. With a howl of triumph, shriller than that of any Fury, and with one hand pressed on the new life growing within her, Poppaea spat in the lifeless face of Claudia Octavia.
All who witnessed it felt a chill; a chill so deep that it froze the heart. Vespasian looked in horror at the Golden Emperor, the man with ultimate power over all, the man who thought nothing of murdering a third member of his family merely as a gift and, along with everyone else in the room, he, Vespasian, shuddered under the weight of the fear.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THIS BOOK IS based on the works of Tacitus, Suetonius and Cassius Dio. Unfortunately, however, none of them tell us what Vespasian was doing during the timespan of the story; so, once again, I have had to insert him into the events of the time.
Suetonius and Tacitus both tell us of Nero’s rampages through Rome at night disguised in a wig, raping and murdering for amusement. Tacitus mentions the unfortunate case of Gaius Julius Montanus who was forced to commit suicide after putting up resistance to one of Nero’s assaults.
Nero did study music under Terpnus who was considered the greatest lyre-player of the age; during the timespan of this book he kept his ‘talent’ a secret, singing only to a privileged few. My take on his voice comes from Suetonius telling us that, despite his lying with weights on his chest and using enemas and emetics as well as refraining from eating apples, his voice was ‘feeble and husky’.
The Furies of Rome Page 36