False God of Rome

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘Caligula wants you to act as his thief?’ Flavia said once he had explained the situation. ‘He really is mad.’

  ‘Yes, but unfortunately he’s also the Emperor.’

  ‘And if you don’t steal this thing for him?’

  ‘He’ll never forgive me; or worse.’

  ‘Why don’t you just take him the replica that you’re having made?’

  ‘I’ve thought about that but Caligula saw the real one close up when he visited Alexandria with his father; I daren’t take the risk that there’s a mark on it or something that we haven’t seen and he can remember.’

  ‘If there is then the priests will discover the fake.’

  Vespasian shrugged. ‘That’s a risk I have to take; anyway we’ll be back in Rome by then.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘If you want to come back with me, then yes, we.’

  Flavia looked down at him and smiled. ‘Does that mean that you want me to be your mistress or your wife?’

  Vespasian swallowed, realising that for the second time in the conversation honesty would be best. ‘I already have a mistress in Rome whom I will never give up.’

  Flavia looked at him warily. ‘Then what do you want from me?’

  ‘I want sons, so I was thinking more of the second option.’

  ‘And what if you get your mistress pregnant? Divorce me and marry her?’

  ‘I could never do that, she’s a freedwoman.’

  ‘So she’s no threat to my position, then?’

  ‘No, Flavia.’

  ‘What I want from you is security.’

  ‘You will always be my wife and the mother of my children.’

  Flavia fell on him and kissed him passionately. ‘In that case I’d be happy to, Vespasian,’ she said between kisses. ‘I’ve been so worried recently.’

  ‘About me leaving you here?’

  ‘No; about me always being a mistress and never having the children that I pray for every day to Mother Isis.’

  Vespasian’s footsteps echoed in the grand stairwell as he made his way down from his suite to the ground floor of the Royal Palace. He had made no attempt to conceal his progress through the well-lit corridors of the upper storey; any slaves whom he had met in passing he had ignored as they bowed their respects to him. He paid no heed to the two legionaries on guard at the foot of the stairs who snapped to attention as he passed, choosing instead to act as if he had every right to be walking around the palace in the dead of night, which, indeed, he did. Acting with the confidence expected of his rank in society, he had reasoned, would be the best way to avoid any suspicion.

  Turning left past the guards he walked down a wide corridor punctuated on either side by niches in which were housed the busts of previous prefects, set upon pedestals; the flickering glow of torches played on the features of the carved stone faces and reflected off the polished marble floor. Drifting in with the moonlight through a window at the far end of the corridor, overlooking the Royal Harbour below, came the shouts and cries of many voices and the unmistakeable rasping of oars being shipped as if a large vessel were in the process of docking. Turning right at the window, Vespasian glanced down to the palace’s private port in the eastern corner of the Great Harbour, and glimpsed a trireme in the pale light being made fast to the quay as a small group of people waited at the top of the gangplank to disembark. He briefly wondered why a ship should arrive in port in the middle of the night, and then realised that that was the advantage of the Pharos: its light could guide a ship into harbour at any time.

  After a couple more turns, and meeting no one else, he arrived at the unlit corridor where the statues of the Ptolemys stood like a long line of silent sentinels, still and strangely forbidding in the gloom. Putting all ghostly thoughts to the back of his mind, he quickly pulled back Ptolemy Soter’s heavy cloak and started working on unbuckling the breastplate, which proved to be a fiddly task owing to the lack of light and the stiffness of the buckles and leather straps. After an agonising few moments, while his heartbeat gradually quickened, the stiff leather straps finally came through the buckles and the plate was free; Vespasian placed it on the ground and removed the replica from under his cloak and began to attach it to the statue. As he secured the last strap a flicker of orange light glinted in the corner of his eye; he turned and, looking back up the corridor, saw a torch appear at the far end accompanied by the sharp sound of hardened leather soles striking marble. In the dim light he could make out three people, two men and a woman, walking directly towards him. He quickly slipped the statue’s cloak around him, picked up the cuirass and stood pressing his body hard up against the stone Pharaoh and prayed that the approaching party would not notice in the dark that Ptolemy Soter had sprouted an extra pair of legs and a hunched back.

  ‘I don’t care how long the prefect has been in bed for,’ a voice that Vespasian recognised but could not place said imperiously, ‘you will tell him that I have just arrived from Rome and wish to convey to him, immediately, a message from our beloved Emperor.’

  ‘I will knock on his door, master,’ a servile, tremulous voice replied.

  ‘You will do more than knock, you will get him up! I shall be waiting in the triclinium where I expect to be served wine and food for my wife and me while we await Flaccus. Now go and leave me your torch.’

  As he heard the sound of a man scurrying back up the corridor, Vespasian put a name to the person walking, now not more than three paces away, past his hiding place: Herod Agrippa.

  Once Herod and his wife had turned into the triclinum at the far end of the corridor, Vespasian peered cautiously from under the cloak; satisfied that no one else was coming towards him, he quickly left his hiding place and, holding the breastplate to his chest, began to retrace his steps.

  The legionaries at the bottom of the staircase snapped to attention again as he passed; he mounted the stairs as quickly as decorum would allow and hurried towards his suite.

  ‘What are you doing up, senator?’ a voice called out as he approached his door.

  Vespasian turned to see a bleary-eyed Flaccus peering down the corridor at him.

  ‘I heard a ship docking and was curious as to who would be arriving at this time of night,’ Vespasian lied, holding the breastplate secure with an arm across his stomach.

  Flaccus looked unconvinced. ‘You could have just looked down from your veranda.’

  ‘It doesn’t overlook the Royal Harbour,’ Vespasian replied, this time truthfully, ‘so I went to find a window that did.’

  ‘Was your curiosity satisfied?’

  ‘Yes, I saw that it was Herod Agrippa so I came back to bed.’

  ‘Back to the lovely Flavia, eh? Well, she’ll just have to wait a while longer for your attentions. Herod wants to see me and, seeing as you’re up, you can come along as a witness because I don’t trust that oily oriental.’

  ‘I’ve got no intention of staying here a day longer than I have to,’ Herod declared, taking a sip of wine. ‘I intend to pay my respects to the Alabarch tomorrow to return the money that he lent me, then make a couple of business arrangements before leaving the following day.’

  ‘That may be your intention, Herod,’ Flaccus replied, holding up the scroll with the imperial seal that Herod had just presented him with, ‘but you can’t just give me the Emperor’s mandate confirming my position as prefect in private. It has to be done properly in front of the city council, the Jewish council of elders and delegations from the city councils of Memphis, Sais and Pelusium, as well as those smaller ones nearby, in order that everyone can see that I rule here with the Emperor’s authority.’

  ‘Then organise that for tomorrow.’

  ‘Memphis is two days’ travel by fast ship, so the earliest we can do it will be in five days’ time.’

  ‘I’ll have left by then,’ Herod said flatly.

  ‘No, Herod, you’ll still be here.’

  Herod looked at Flaccus with an amused smile on his face; he turned to his wife, si
tting next to him. ‘The prefect seems to be getting above himself, Cypros, my dear.’

  Vespasian had been watching the conversation seated next to Flaccus but had taken no part in it. Herod had been courteous to him in his greetings and Vespasian had felt much relieved when they grasped forearms by the fact that he had been able to slip into his room and discard the breastplate before descending with Flaccus.

  Cypros raised her thin black eyebrows; jewellery dripped off her ears, neck and fingers. ‘You are aware that the Emperor has made my husband a king, prefect?’

  ‘Lady, I am a Roman, whether your husband is a king or not is neither here nor there to me; he will leave this province only when I give him permission to do so.’

  Herod stood and helped his wife up. ‘This has been a most interesting conversation, prefect, but you have failed to convince me. My wife is tired so we shall retire to bed. I assume that we can use the same suite that we had last time we were here.’

  ‘I’m afraid that Senator Vespasian is occupying that.’

  Herod looked at Vespasian, frowning. ‘Your family makes a habit of inconveniencing me, does it not?’ He turned and walked briskly out of the room.

  ‘Arrogant shit!’ Flaccus said once the footsteps had faded down the corridor.

  ‘If you want a hold over him, I think that I know where to look,’ Vespasian said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think that I can guess what the business arrangements are that he wants to make while he’s here.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘There is a price, naturally, for such information.’

  ‘You are not having Alexander’s breastplate.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of that. I want you to arrest the preacher, Paulus.’

  ‘What, the bow-legged little preacher with half an ear missing? Why do you want me to do that?’

  ‘I want you to try him for sedition and preferably execute him.’

  Flaccus smiled archly. ‘You mean the Alabarch wants me to do that. I warned you not to let him get you involved with his Jewish politics.’

  ‘Paulus is a dangerous fanatic; I came across him in Cyrenaica when he was persecuting the cult that he has now supplanted. If he is preaching it with the same fervour as he tried to destroy the other one, then you may well have a big problem on your hands soon; he causes nothing but discord.’

  ‘You’re saying that the Alabarch’s interests and mine are the same in this matter?’

  ‘Yes, I believe they are.’

  Flaccus thought for a moment. ‘Very well then, I shall give the order tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you, prefect.’

  ‘So, what is this hold that I could have over Herod Agrippa?’

  ‘Grain. I would guess that the arrangements that he wishes to make are to get his illegal stockpile of grain shipped to his kingdom to buy the favour of his new subjects.’

  ‘How do you know about this?’

  ‘The Lady Antonia.’

  Flaccus nodded. ‘She knew about most things. Where is this grain?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly; somewhere in this province.’

  ‘That’s not very helpful. If I can’t find it how can I impound it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Who did he buy it off?’

  ‘Claudius.’

  ‘Did he, now? In that case I know someone who will be very helpful in finding it: Claudius’ agent in Egypt, Thales.’

  The morning had been very long and wearisome in the packed exercise arena at the heart of the Gymnasium complex. Every delegation had made an interminable speech of loyalty to the Emperor before going on to praise Flaccus for his just rule in the Emperor’s name. Each delegation in turn tried to outdo the others with superlatives and rhetorical flourishes while studiously ignoring the cries of rioters and the hobnailed clatter of legionaries chasing miscreants through the streets of a city that teetered on the brink of anarchy. Even as they filled their lungs with air to spout their fawning tributes they could smell the acrid tang of smoke from the many burned-out Jewish homes and businesses.

  Vespasian sat on the dais, facing the three-thousand-strong crowd, on Flaccus’ right, as befitted his rank; Herod Agrippa sat stony-faced on Flaccus’ left, still smarting from the humiliation of being forced, by someone he considered to be beneath him, to stay for the ceremony against his will.

  Once Thales had been informed by Flaccus that his mandate from the Emperor had arrived and that he was likely to be the prefect of Egypt for at least another two years, the banker had become very accommodating and had provided the whereabouts of Herod’s illegal grain stockpile without the least coercion. He had even, of his own free will, given Flaccus his copies of the bills of sale and certificates of ownership and offered him a large interest-free loan, which, after much insistence on Thales’ part, the prefect had reluctantly but gratefully accepted. Thales had left the palace with a solemn undertaking that should anyone ever try to purchase grain illegally through him again, Flaccus would be the first to know about it; Flaccus had thanked him sincerely and had promised to consider repaying a small part of the loan each time Thales came to him with that sort of information. They had parted understanding one another perfectly.

  Flaccus had then managed to reach an equally perfect understanding with Herod: if he stayed for the ceremony, he could leave for his kingdom straight afterwards and, if he played his part well, could even take half of his grain with him; the other half he would naturally donate to Rome in grateful thanks for his new crown.

  It was through gritted teeth, therefore, that Herod had delivered his speech at the opening of the ceremony earlier that morning; firstly reading out Caligula’s mandate confirming Flaccus’ position and then following that with fulsome praise for the sagacity of the Emperor in making that decision. His tribute to Flaccus had not been as effusive as the delegations that followed him, but it was nevertheless adequate, in Vespasian’s opinion, for him to keep one half of his grain. The part where he had expressed his sorrow at having to leave for his kingdom after such a short stay with his good friend Flaccus had forced Vespasian to suppress a violent giggling fit.

  Eventually the delegations from the surrounding cities and towns had all finished extolling the virtues of the man who had the power of life and death over them and it was the turn of the representatives of the turbulent city of Alexandria to speak. It fell to the Jews to speak first, leaving to the more numerous Greeks the honour of speaking just before the prefect gave his reply.

  Alexander the Alabarch stood up from the midst of a group of old men who were sweating profusely in the ever strengthening sun, dressed in their mantles and long robes.

  ‘We the Jews of Alexandria,’ he declaimed in Greek, ‘also applaud our beloved Emperor for his wisdom in confirming our noble prefect in his position. We count ourselves fortunate that the Emperor Gaius has set such a man as Aulus Avilius Flaccus to rule over us as we know that we can count on his evenhandedness in dealing with the great injustices that are at the moment being dealt to our people by the non-Jewish part of the population of this city.’

  Flaccus’ composure stiffened and there was a general stirring among the city delegations and the Alexandrian Greek mob in the audience behind them; this was not the sort of thing that custom and good manners decreed should form a part of a congratulatory speech.

  ‘Although the ravages against Jewish property still continue and the murder and rapine of our people escalate daily, we have no doubt that the prefect will bring to justice those responsible and order compensation to the victims. We are also confident that he will give his word on this to King Herod Agrippa, the personal friend of the Emperor and the most exalted of Jews in the Empire.’

  Indignant mutterings from the Greek mob began to escalate; Herod shifted uncomfortably in his chair, evidently unwilling to become involved in his co-religionists’ struggle in this province.

  ‘We must also thank Prefect Flaccus for his endeav
our to track down and arrest the blasphemous preacher, Gaius Julius Paulus, in order to put an end to his disgusting heresy. Although he has so far been unsuccessful in finding Paulus, we feel sure that the prefect will redouble his efforts and very soon apprehend this divisive and dangerous man.’

  This brought incensed cries of outrage from the audience; it was unthinkable that anyone should mention publicly that the prefect was unsuccessful in anything. Flaccus, however, remained seated with a faint smile on his face, looking outwardly relaxed, swathed in his toga, leaning with his right elbow on the arm of the chair and resting the other hand on the knee of his left leg extended before him; it would be beneath his dignitas to shout down the Alabarch.

  There was a stirring at the entrance to the arena closest to Vespasian as Alexander continued. ‘We would therefore promise to pledge our allegiance to him and will undertake to make sacrifices on his behalf to God once he has done these things.’

  This was the final insult for the Greeks; Alexander had refused to recognise Flaccus’ authority until he had met their demands, which would entail, among other things, that the Greeks would be liable to pay for the damage that they had caused.

  Alexander’s next words were drowned out by howls of protest that gradually turned into raucous laughter as the mob became aware of a strange procession making its way into the arena from the entrance nearest to Vespasian close to where Flavia and the other Roman women were seated. A filthy, toothless beggar was being carried, shoulder high, through the crowd wearing a purple cloak. On his head he wore a parody of a crown made of iron scraps attached to a leather headband and in his hand, in mimicry of a sceptre, he held a sponge fastened to the end of a stick, as used for personal hygiene in public latrines. The beggar cackled as his bodyguard of equally insalubrious vagrants pushed a path through the crowd crying, ‘Make way for the King, so recently a beggar!’

  ‘Hail the King!’ the crowd roared repeatedly through their mirth.

  Vespasian glanced over at Herod whose eyes bulged in outrage as his jaw locked solid in recognition that this farce was directed at him, the king who until only recently had been as penniless as a beggar as he languished in gaol. The destitute wretch being paraded around for Herod’s humiliation had been plucked from the street and given royal attire and honours much as Caligula had plucked Herod from his confinement and made him a king almost overnight.