The Capitol was the smallest of Rome’s Seven Hills, but it was steep and rocky, a natural fortress on a high promontory. There were said to be a hundred steps to the top, up which Gaius Vinius toiled, humping on his back heavy esparto mats that the vigiles used to smother flames. He did not count the steps, nor had he breath to curse. Frantic priests and officials buffeted him as they rushed downhill, some lugging statues or treasure chests. Others even bore in their arms hysterical augury chickens and the geese that had been sacred for hundreds of years since they saved Rome from marauding Gauls. Above the crag, agitated wild birds were circling in dense smoke. Wails rose from onlookers clustered in the Forum below. As Vinius staggered skywards, he felt he was climbing to the roof of a world he was losing for ever, staggering into a flame-lit hell where all he knew and loved was about to die.
On the summit, the main temple was on fire.
The renowned temple of Jupiter Best and Greatest was the centre of the state religion. Here, magistrates began their term of office with solemn sacrifices, and the Senate held its first meeting of each year. It was the culmination of victory parades, where heroic generals vowed their arms to Jupiter.
This mighty temple with its gilded roof was the largest of its type ever built, created on a massive square podium in ancient Etruscan style, with eighteen giant columns standing in three rows on its daunting portico. Destroyed by fire in the last days of civil wars only ten years before, its loss then had been traumatic. During the violent change of emperors, Vespasian’s brother, Sabinus, had made a last stand there, barricading the citadel while opponents pointlessly held out; at the last hour, Vespasian’s brother was hacked to death and his cadaver dumped on the very Gemonian Stairs that Gaius Vinius had just climbed with his deadweight burden of equipment. Vespasian’s younger son Domitian had had a hair-raising escape.
That burning of the temple had symbolised terrible times that everyone now prayed were ended for good. The Temple of Jupiter had been restored by Vespasian, who hauled off the first basket of rubble himself when the site was cleared. Enormous care had been taken to find or replace the hundreds of ancient bronze tablets that had adorned the building. When it rose again at last, it seemed a sign that Rome would once more be great, its people fortunate under a worthy and energetic emperor. Now Vinius saw that the recently reinaugurated temple was burning so fiercely it could never be saved.
Choking and completely spent, the vigiles had given up and were starting to retreat. Blackened faces told of their soul-destroying efforts. Vinius was signalled to stay back. Flames had reached the roof. The temple was too high, too isolated; there was no way for them to send up water to its cloud-scraping pediments, even if water had been available.
Then someone shouted that priests were still inside. The cry of ‘persons reported’, dreaded by all firefighters, roused Vinius. Marginally fresher than the men who had been here before him, he ran up the great steps and through the massive portico columns. He heard protesting voices, but instinct propelled him on.
Inside, the heat was so intense, air seemed to burn in his throat and lungs so that every breath scared him. The spectacle was lurid. The ceiling was hidden by thick smoke, but three enormous crowned cult statues of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva were lit by flickering red light. Vinius was no more religious than the next man in the armed forces; he honoured the rituals because you had to, prayed to be saved from danger, but had already learned that divinities had no compassion for humans. No calm-browed god had stepped in to protect him when the British homunculus launched the spear that nearly killed him. Even so, as the light from sheets of flame flickered across the towering statues, it was hard not to feel he stood in the presence of the gods.
It was crazy to stay. Slabs of dissolving marble the size of serving trays were dropping from on high. Oil or incense must have spilled, so vaporous licks of blue flame were creating a molten floor carpet. Amidst the continuous roar of fire, Vinius heard louder cracks as massive columns and masonry began to break apart. The whole enormous building was groaning in what he knew must be its death throes.
He glimpsed one body, prostrate before the statue of Minerva, in the skullcap with a pointed prong that marked a senior priest. Somehow he crossed the interior and found he had carried with him an esparto mat; he flung it over the priest then summoned the strength to haul man and mat backwards out of the sanctum. As he fled, the cult statues seemed to loom and sway as if they were about to fall. Smoke blinded him. Heat flayed him. His skin seemed to melt. Even the intolerable noise was distressing.
Outside, the terrified Vinius hauled the priest free of the mat, got a shoulder under him and stumbled down the steps. Colleagues ran to relieve him of the burden, then they hustled Vinius from the temple forecourt, beating at his clothing which was now on fire. Behind him the roof must have failed almost immediately, with a tremendous crash, then sheets of flame poured skywards through it.
The man he saved was stretchered away at a run. Vinius forgot about him immediately. Once his burning clothes were extinguished, he squatted on his haunches in the rags of his tunic, with a raw face, charred hair and eyebrows, burned arms and shins, and despair in his heart.
They stayed up there, huddled in an open space where omens were taken, in case the Temple of Juno was threatened, but an alteration in the wind saved it. So although sometimes they had to beat out spot-fires, mostly they took a grim kind of rest, standing or sitting in silence as they watched the larger temple being consumed, counting the crashes as its huge columns keeled over. Each collapse seemed to mark their helplessness; each fall emphasised their failure.
For Vinius that was the worst time. It ended in one last terrible night of exhaustion and despair. But it did end. A quieter dawn came, where cries and crashes continued, but the heat and smoke were noticeably more subdued, the fire at last starved and dying.
Sporadic flames still danced amidst the havoc on Capitol and Campus as the stunned vigiles surveyed what they had lost and what they had saved. They were all at their physical limits. Some who seemed unharmed would yet succumb to the effects of smoke and evil particles inhaled in confined places; others would be tormented for years by nightmares. Now they regrouped raggedly, while officers unfeelingly gave new orders. Those who had been on the Capitol then came very slowly down to the Forum, where crowds stood waiting.
People broke out into applause. Gratitude seemed too terrible to bear. Men in the ranks wept. Unbearable emotion swept over them. Though he thought himself tough, Gaius Vinius too felt hot tears rush down his burned cheeks.
Cruelly, they were not yet dismissed. Those of the vigiles who could still keep upright had to parade at the foot of the Capitol. It was explained to them, with a caustic undernote, that a good show must be put on: a party of horrified magistrates and other senators were coming to view the extent of the damage.
Foremost among the dignitaries, acting as imperial representative, would be Titus’ younger brother and heir, Domitian Caesar.
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Domitian arrived by litter. That was his style. Throughout his life — his adult life in the imperial family, when funds were no problem — he preferred to travel carried by bearers. He lounged aloft like an exotic potentate, which gave an impression of importance, while he could draw all the privacy curtains, indulging his love of solitude.
Inspecting the fire damage on behalf of Titus produced mixed feelings. It recalled his father’s accession ten years ago, when Domitian had had a taste of direct power as he represented Vespasian for a few delicious weeks; he made the most of it. A decade later he was used to playing substitute. If second place riled him, he had learned to conceal his feelings. He knew how to appear modest too; he was as good an actor as his brother. He had inherited all the family talents.
Patrician families in Rome, a select group of famous names who had multiple consuls and generals among their ancestors, believed what mattered was a pedigree that ran back to some moss-covered hutment next door to Romulus. Even without, the
once-obscure, up-country Flavians had moved themselves in merely three generations into proximity with gods. They achieved it on ability. They were astute and intelligent; they knew how to position themselves politically; they were diplomats. Domitian, when he chose, had all those qualities.
Above all, the Flavians were clannish. They supported each other financially and socially, gave each other jobs, married their cousins. Domitian had been born and partly brought up in his uncle’s house. Uncle Sabinus had seemingly felt no grudge when his younger brother was bidding for the throne, only proud that it was ‘one of us’. Two of us, as it turned out. Vespasian (with Titus alongside) became emperor. Vespasian (with Titus) was awarded a Triumph for subduing the Jewish Rebellion. Vespasian (and Titus) then ruled the Empire like unofficial partners. Titus now possessed it.
As the spare heir, Domitian was sidelined. Everyone knew that his father and brother had argued about his capabilities and whether he was reliable. He knew it, which certainly rankled. They awarded him a few minor priesthoods, then relegated him to organising poetry competitions. Fortunately he liked poetry. Indeed, the young Caesar wrote and performed verse himself which, naturally, was well-received. It was said that the multi-skilled Titus wrote poetry almost as well as Domitian, though praise for Domitian came from critics who were nervous of him — an aspect which did not escape his notice.
Vespasian died. Titus took over. If Titus, who was currently unmarried, never had male children and if his daughter Julia had no sons, Domitian would succeed to the Empire. Mind you, if Titus lived as long as their father, he could be waiting thirty years.
Understandably, people presumed Domitian was plotting against his brother. Romans were power-hungry. Anyone in his position would try to remove his rival. You had to be practical, and recent precedents existed. Most of the ambitious Julio-Claudian dynasty, with or without assistance from their noble wives and mothers, had had a hand in murdering some relative who stood in their way. The Empress Livia kept in constant touch with a poisoner. Sending soldiers to despatch rivals with swords happened on a routine basis.
In contrast, officially the Flavian creed was to admire ‘traditional Roman values’. That dull ideal meant spending their summers in the country and deploring scandal. Instead of eliminating each other, they glued together in a patriarchal huddle. It was said that once, when Domitian had angered Vespasian, Titus generously urged their father to be lenient, because blood was thicker than water. Now Titus gave a very sincere impression that he loved his ten-years-younger brother, admired him, confided in him, valued him, relied on him, would bequeath him everything in full confidence of excellent stewardship — and that he never felt any tendency to wring Domitian’s sturdy neck until the untrustworthy little bugger croaked.
Domitian kept his own counsel. This is always viewed as moody and suspicious.
Being intelligent, he could presumably see that bringing about the death of an emperor would carry a pervasive after-taint. Assassination sets a bad precedent; historians cluttered up the court, expertly pointing that out, albeit in undertones. If he really did have designs on his brother, he was hampered by the fact that from the start of Vespasian’s reign Titus had appointed himself Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, nine thousand battle-hardened men whose job was to protect their emperor day and night, which they now did with the devotion of uncomplicated soldiers he had personally commanded for ten years. Men to whom Titus had also given a massive donation of cash on his accession, the usual way to guarantee the Guards’ loyalty; their loyalty code was simple.
Topping Titus while nine thousand armoured toughs were looking after him would be difficult. So stabbing Titus at the baths or the Games was out. Even putting arsenic into the cherry preserve at breakfast time, though feasible for a family member, would be the act of an idiot.
Nevertheless, on the twenty-mile journey down from Alba, secluded in his palanquin, it must be natural for a frustrated Caesar, an emperor-in-waiting who might never succeed, to let his thoughts dwell privately on possibilities for becoming an emperor-in-fact. For three or four hours he had not much else to do. He was not a great reader. A bumping litter was no place for entertainments to take his mind off his feelings. Belly-dancers or flautists were out. You could fuck a concubine or eunuch if you really wanted a challenge, but there were easier ways to give yourself a hernia. The Emperor Claudius was supposed to have invented a special chessboard for his carriage, but Domitian’s game was dice, solo. His personality was obsessive enough to throw dice repeatedly for a whole journey to Rome, but in a bumping litter dice got lost too often. He never coped well with that kind of frustration.
It had not struck him that he would not cope with the burned Capitol either.
On arrival, the usual flummery set in. Stretching irritably, he waited for things to start, while as always it took longer than he could bear. He watched people around him in silence, which always worried them. They were scared of him. He recognised it, with a mixture of resentment and bitter glee. All the time a part of him wanted instead to be loved, as his father had been, as his brother still was. Knowing that it would never happen just made him colder and more autocratic.
He gazed up from the Forum to where the Temple of Jupiter should be. Once again it was gone. Its absence took him back to the worst night of his life, that night of terror when he was eighteen.
He had had an unextravagant childhood. They were always short of money. Nonetheless, by the time Domitian was born, Vespasian had become a man of importance, one of the victors of the Roman invasion of Britain and a consul; during those years he was a remote figure to his younger son, often serving abroad. Domitian had been home-schooled whereas Titus, previously, was educated at court with the Emperor Claudius’ son, Britannicus. But Domitian had expected the kind of career his brother had: the army at officer rank, formal entry to the Senate, diplomatic posts abroad, maybe training as a barrister. None of that happened, because his father became emperor.
During Domitian’s teens Vespasian left Rome again, accompanying Nero on a cultural tour of Greece. It unexpectedly led to a further three years away, subduing a revolt in Judaea. Vespasian won the command because Nero had jealously executed a more prominent and popular general, Corbulo, who was probably plotting (though possibly not). Titus went east with Vespasian, first on his father’s staff, but before long leading troops as a general in his own right. Domitian had been left behind in Rome, deposited with his uncle, Flavius Sabinus.
Nero’s antics finally offended Roman taste too much; he was pressured into suicide. A tussle for power ensued. Three new emperors came and went, each lasting only months, each dying violently. Finally, to the astonishment of the snobs in Rome, Vespasian emerged the winner. Having four legions in his command had helped. Another virtue was that his two grown sons guaranteed an enduring succession. He did not venture home to Rome until the situation stabilised; in the last months there was bloody turmoil as his predecessor Vitellius clung on in power.
Flavius Sabinus, one of the most respected men in Rome, was Prefect of the City; he held that post for many years, even under the rival Vitellius. With the Empire and city suffering terribly, Sabinus struggled to clinch his brother’s bid for the throne, desperately brokering peace. Domitian found himself in a thrilling position, though much overshadowed by his uncle and with house arrest imposed by Vitellius.
As Vespasian’s troops marched through Italy towards Rome, Vitellius agreed to abdicate. Prematurely, Sabinus allowed exulting Flavian supporters to congregate outside his house. They were attacked by a furious mob of opponents. By that time, Vitellius was unwell and had no power to control this situation even if he had wanted to. Sabinus took refuge on the Capitol with a motley group of followers; he sent for his own sons and Domitian, who managed to evade his guards and reach the citadel.
Frantic, the Flavians barricaded themselves in. They used statues to block routes up the hill and threw roof tiles down on the Vitellian troops who surrounded them. It became a deba
cle. Unknown arsonists set fire to the Capitol buildings. Suddenly, everything had gone wrong for the Flavians; in a frantic race against time their army struggled to reach Rome to achieve a rescue. The Vitellians stormed the Capitol before the troops arrived. Sabinus was captured and killed; his mutilated body thrown on the Gemonian Stairs like a traitor’s.
Through the flames and smoke, chaos and mangled corpses, Domitian managed to evade the Vitellians who were hunting him down. As Vespasian’s son, he would have been at best a hostage, but he knew they wanted him dead.
A brave caretaker of the Temple of Jupiter concealed him in his hut through one terrifying night. Next morning, assisted by a loyal freedman, Domitian escaped down to the Campus where he mingled with bare-chested priests of Isis, dressed as one of their exotic number as they went in procession to the sound of sistrums. He made it across the river to the house of a schoolfriend, whose mother hid him. Only when the Flavian army arrived in Rome, two days later, was it safe to emerge and scramble to them. He gave a speech to the soldiers, who then acclaimed Domitian with the title of Caesar and carried him in triumph to his father’s house.
Heady moments followed. He appeared in the Senate, speaking for his father, and acquitted himself well. He handed out honours. He was courted by greybeards and sycophants alike. Women flung themselves at him; he lured one senator’s young wife — one of Corbulo’s daughters — to Pompey’s villa in the Alban Hills where he persuaded her to leave her husband for him.
But the events on the Capitol had affected him for life. His equilibrium was shaken. The sights and sounds of fire and mob violence, and his uncle’s ghastly fate, embedded themselves in his mind. From then on, Domitian trusted nobody and no situation. He had witnessed how good fortune could be snatched way. If the most senior and worthy men could end their lives torn limb from limb, what hope was there for anyone? At eighteen, having never held a military post, he was affected by this violence. His need for disguise and elusion that bleak night had taught him deep reserve, a personal wariness which he never again put off. Ten years later, the smell of the burnt temple on the Capitol was threatening to unman him.
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