Corvinus was not the only man of senatorial rank sampling the delights of the most distinguished women in Rome and Vespasian cursed each one for their encouragement of Nero’s depravity. And yet, as he looked around the diners on the rafts he could see no trace of outrage nor, indeed, any acknowledgement that their womenfolk were being abused by anyone who cared to. No, all he saw were men, chatting to one another whilst eating and drinking without, seemingly, a care in the world; for that was the safest way to survive the evening. All were well aware of the Praetorian Guards nearby ready to quell any dissention to the entertainment arrangements at the banquet organised by the Praetorian prefect in the Emperor’s honour.
‘My daughter is in there somewhere,’ Sabinus said, his voice tight with rage.
Vespasian stared at his brother for a few moments and then the shock hit him as he thought of his own daughter. ‘Domitilla?’
Sabinus nodded.
Vespasian choked down a sob; his head fell into his hands. He could say nothing as he tried not to think of the indignities being forced upon his daughter.
‘My dear boy,’ Gaius said, laying a soothing hand on Vespasian’s arm, ‘I’m sorry, I should have warned you; but I had no idea that it would be this bad.’
‘What did you think then, Uncle?’ Vespasian hissed, trying not to let his anger show.
‘Well, I suppose I just thought that they would be ... well, I don’t know what I thought, really; I certainly didn’t think that they would be forced into doing ... doing, well, this sort of thing with the lowest type of person.’
‘Or Corvinus!’
‘Or Corvinus; indeed not. We haven’t seen this sort of outrage since Caligula.’
Vespasian scrunched up his napkin in a white-knuckled fist. ‘Caligula forced senatorial wives into prostitution; people had to pay. He was motivated by a hatred of the Senate for being complicit in the gradual extermination of almost his entire family and to show them that they were unwilling to deny the ultimate donator of patronage anything. Admittedly that was bad enough; but this? This is worse, much worse: no one even has to pay for the pleasure of fucking my wife and daughter; not that it would make it remotely acceptable anyway. And what is Nero’s motivation for this? He’s doing it just because he can; because he knows that he can get away with it. In fact, it hasn’t even occurred to him that he might not be able to get away with it.’
‘Perhaps this time we should make sure that he doesn’t get away with it.’
Vespasian could not identify the voice; he looked in its direction hoping that he had not been expressing his thoughts so loud that many people had overheard. Settling down on a couch next to him he recognised Gaius Calpurnius Piso. ‘What did you say?’
Piso leant forward and kept his voice low as he addressed the Flavians. ‘You heard perfectly well, Vespasian, and so did you two, Gaius and Sabinus, so I’m not going to repeat it. All I will say is that my wife and daughters are somewhere in the colonnades too, although I have been fortunate enough not to see them and do not intend to make too close a study of the activities in there for fear of spotting them. And I recommend that you do the same. I for one will try my hardest to pretend that this is just another imperial dinner. But think on what I said.’
Vespasian did not answer but looked sidelong at his uncle and brother.
Gaius shook his head. ‘That’s not a subject that I like to hear discussed or even be aware that it’s being discussed.’
What Sabinus thought, Vespasian could not tell as horns blared a fanfare from the open bank of the lake and brought all conversation to an end, making it harder to ignore the sound of mass rutting from the other three sides.
Vespasian looked to the fourth bank; a score of stakes had been set up in front of the kitchens, and to them struggling people of both sexes were being tied, two to each, their shouts of protest mingling with the sexual dirge emanating from the colonnades. He was not surprised to see that they were naked, nor was he surprised by the arrival of the gustatio, the opening course of the meal, as if there was nothing untoward happening at all. He looked without appetite at the beautifully prepared array of dishes being set down on the table by slaves under the direction of the steward of the raft. Gaius immediately tucked into a sausage as another slave came round filling their cups with wine. On the shore the stakes continued to be filled and more torches were lit to ensure that each one was well illuminated.
‘We’re not going to go back to Caligula’s habit of having executions during dinner, are we?’ Gaius muttered, helping himself to a second sausage. ‘It’s so bad for the digestion.’
Vespasian did not comment as he watched a cart containing a cage being wheeled towards the stakes; next to it strode the unmistakable figure of Tigellinus, the Praetorian prefect, flashing his rabid-dog snarl of a smile as he waved to the diners on the rafts. As the cart passed close to a torch the outline of some beast of a good size could be made out in the cage and Vespasian thought that his uncle may well have been right. The sight of the cage and its contents brought a fresh round of screaming from the victims as the cart stopped and its tailgate was lowered; from the cage issued a rumbling growl.
Forced jollity sprang up from the assembled diners as if the dismemberment of restrained prisoners was just what all present had craved to go with their first course.
With surprising casualness, for one so close to a deadly creature, Tigellinus unbolted the cage’s grille and swung it open, freeing whatever lurked within. The screams of the prisoners now reached a new pitch, drowning out other noises.
A shadow moved inside the cage; Vespasian held his breath. Whether the beast roared as it leapt out with a bound, none could hear above the terrified victims shrieking to absent gods. It landed on all fours, a thing of indistinguishable shape, covered in fur of different hues in the flickering light; for a few moments it surveyed its prey, shaking as if with great excitement. Then it pounced, its forelegs outstretched, straight at a horrified youth barely in his teens. But it did not pounce high, going for the throat as Vespasian had seen many times in the circus, but, rather, stayed low so that the paws landed on the youth’s genitals. His howls were great as the beast tore and ripped at him, sometimes with claw and sometimes with tooth, until a bloody mess was all that remained of his loins and it moved on to its next shrill victim, a woman this time. And it gnawed on her, as if ravenous, ripping at the soft flesh of her pudenda, uttering bestial snarls moistened by saliva and blood; she stared down at it, catatonic in her terror and pain.
Vespasian was transfixed, mouth agape, as he surveyed the scene in all its hideousness. Despite its repellence he could not tear his eyes from it, not because he appreciated the horror or enjoyed the suffering, far from it; it was for another reason: something was wrong. At first he could not put his finger on it; it just felt as if somewhere there was a mismatch. Something did not fit. Then, as the beast left its second victim, ripped and torn, and barrelled towards the next stake, something in its movement caught his eye; and as it sank its teeth into the scrotum of a shrieking greybeard, Vespasian understood. It was not a beast that they were witnessing; it had run, crouching over but not using its forelegs, just its rear two. He looked more closely and could see that its hide was nought but skins that were now coming loose as the thing exerted itself in violent genital mutilation; its claws were not claws at all, they were fingers, pale and stubby, and its face, as it flung its head back with a thing of horror clamped in its jaws, was now exposed, the fur having been scraped off. And it was a face that all present knew, despite the indistinct light, despite the sheen of blood and gobbets of flesh covering it and despite the unnatural set of its features as it explored the boundaries betwixt human and bestial; for who could fail to recognise the countenance of the man they were all subject to? Who would not know Nero?
Vespasian gagged and had to swallow his vomit and then gagged again and failed to contain it; the wine that he had shared with Gaius earlier sprayed, through his fingers, over the table, fo
uling much of the gustatio and causing his companions to look at him in alarm.
‘Dear boy,’ Gaius said, putting an arm on his shoulder, ‘was it something you ate?’
Vespasian spewed again, unable to answer as, on the shore, fresh screams indicated a new victim was experiencing the teeth and nails of the Emperor. And now, these new screams were the only sound to be heard, for all within the confines of Agrippa’s Lake, be they on the water or in the colonnades, had now realised what was happening and were staring in disbelief at the man who ruled the greatest Empire in the world. The oarsmen ceased rowing and all on the lake became still.
Victim after victim he ravaged, always in the same manner, leaving them ruined, hyperventilating, eyes rolling, and all who witnessed it remained motionless, shocked by a barbarity that not even Caligula nor his uncle, Tiberius, had ever displayed – at least not in public. And all the time Tigellinus looked on, his teeth bared in his snarl of a grin, every now and then nodding in approval at his master’s actions.
Finally, with three or four stakes still untouched, Nero’s lust for genitalia was sated; for a while he lay upon the ground, breathing heavily and licking his fingers and looking up at the sky. The buzz of conversation began to rise with very gradual increments as the guests explored subjects such as the gustatio, delicious; the weather, unseasonably hot; the upcoming games, hopefully lavish; anything, just anything. Any subject but the horror they had just witnessed their Emperor perpetrate or the degradation of their womenfolk around them that had now started up again in earnest.
Vespasian could bring himself to say nothing as Gaius cheerfully ordered the steward to clear away the table and bring a fresh one complete with another serving of the gustatio. He could not understand what had made him so sick; he had seen people being ripped apart in far more explicit ways in the circus on numerous occasions and had witnessed wounds on the battlefield that would make the most ardent beast-hunt aficionado blanche. He remained on the couch staring into the middle-distance, his expression blank, as a group of Praetorian Guards went around the victims, putting an end to their misery and cutting the corpses down. Those who had avoided Nero’s attentions were summarily despatched nonetheless, no doubt to their great relief rather than wait for the Emperor to get a second wind.
And then it came to Vespasian: it was not the act itself that had so revolted him; it was everything in conjunction. Having been away from Rome for over a year he had come back to find it even darker and more degraded than before. Nero buggering and then murdering his adoptive brother, Britannicus, at a dinner and then going on to commit incest with his mother and ordering her death, before following that deed with the execution of his wife and then presenting her head to his new Empress as a wedding gift, seemed to be mild in comparison to what Vespasian had returned home to. Now Nero was not just confining his malice to the inner circle on the Palatine Hill; now it was different. Now it was all the élite who would suffer and soon it would start spreading down through Roman society, until, somehow, all the citizens of Rome would feel the effect of the man who knew no restraint; a man who did not even acknowledge the need for restraint because he considered everything and everyone to be his and within his power. Vespasian allowed himself a grim smile; the time that he had predicted was surely now approaching.
‘What is it, Vespasian?’ Sabinus asked, picking up on his brother’s expression.
Vespasian wiped his lips and then leant across so that only his uncle and brother could hear his words. ‘This has to be close to the extremes of tolerance, even in our hardened times. Caligula couldn’t surpass this.’
Gaius’ jowls wobbled in alarm. ‘What do you mean, dear boy?’
‘You know perfectly well what I mean, Uncle. Piso is already openly looking for support; the time is coming when the idea that the Emperor has to come from the Julio-Claudian bloodline is going to disappear, because look at the way they behave. We must take care in the next year or so; we must swallow our pride and take whatever humiliations are heaped upon us because, whatever we do, we must not join – or even be associated with or remotely implicated in – any conspiracy to rid Rome of Nero.’
Sabinus glanced over to Piso who was deep in conversation with Seneca’s nephew, the poet Marcus Annaeus Lucanus, and Senator Scaevinus, one of this year’s praetors. ‘And why not, brother? A figurehead is needed and he’s as good as any.’
‘Because, Sabinus, Nero’s hold over the Praetorian Guard is still strong, so any conspiracy is doomed to failure at the moment. We wait; but I can assure you that the time is coming.’ He looked over to where Nero was starting to stir. ‘He still has no heir; we just need to survive a couple more years, perhaps three, and then we shall see. With you as Urban prefect we might find ourselves in a very interesting position.’
Gradually Nero began to get up; he gazed around as if he were unsure of his whereabouts and then looked in surprise at the skins that remained attached to his person as though he had no concept of just how they might have come to be there. Tigellinus approached him from behind and, with surprising gentleness, helped him to his feet, whispering in his ear as a group of slaves erected a tent just near him. Suddenly Nero was animated, ripping the remaining skins from his body before walking forward with purpose and plunging into the lake. As the Emperor washed the blood from himself a Praetorian centurion stood above him shouting at the oarsmen not to restart their efforts; when Nero was done, the centurion hauled him out and escorted the naked Emperor to the tent. None in the gathering affected to notice Nero’s nudity let alone comment on the sagginess of his buttocks or the girth of his stomach; all carried on making a show of enjoying the banquet as the group of musicians struck up again and the oarsmen began to slowly circulate the rafts around the lake once more.
It was as if he were making his entrance for the first time that Nero emerged from the tent, not long later, resplendent in the regalia that was now associated with the Emperor: all purple with gold trimmings. With no sense of irony, the company broke out into rapturous applause, hailing their Emperor as he stood before them, his arms open wide, basking in their conjured adulation.
Vespasian joined with the rest, knowing that informers were everywhere and it would not do to be seen to be sparing with imperial praise; but now, more than ever, as dissent became more open, he understood the importance in being seen to support Nero; in that lay safety, whereas association with the likes of Calpurnius Piso was a sure route to death.
Despite how dark his world had become, Vespasian was certain that if he could just survive Nero then things may well be different; and if the prophecy, made at the time of his birth, was anything close to what he thought it might be then things could be very different indeed. And it was with thoughts of the future rather than of the present that Vespasian ceased applauding as the Emperor signalled for silence.
‘My friends,’ Nero declaimed, striking a pose with his left arm across his chest and his right stretched in the air before his face, his hand cupped, ‘I bring news that will sadden you all.’ He paused for pleas from his audience to spare them grief but was unmoved by their entreaties. ‘It cannot be helped, my friends, for I have other charges who must benefit from my presence. I refer to the people of the second greatest city in the Empire: Alexandria. I plan to share with them the glory of my presence and my talent. Do not weep, my friends, for I shall not be away for long.’ There were many cries begging him to remain but there was not one of the guests who did not feel joy and relief: the fear that held sway over them was to be removed from Rome for at least a short while. ‘Because I am not, as you all know, insensible to your feelings I shall give you cause for celebration before I leave. Once again, I intend to marry.’
There was a stunned silence as all present considered the fate of the Empress Poppaea Sabina.
Vespasian felt a surge of relief at what had to be her fall from favour.
‘So join me tomorrow, my friends, and help me to celebrate my joy at taking a husband.’
&
nbsp; Another silence as all tried to make out the meaning of what they had just heard, wondering if they had caught the final word correctly. After a few moments, Tigellinus called out his congratulations to the Emperor, thus releasing a flood of felicitations.
Vespasian found himself cheering with the rest; he looked across to his brother and uncle. ‘Is there no taboo he won’t break?’
CHAPTER VIII
ROME WAS STILL sweltering, despite the fact that it was approaching the fourth hour of the night when Vespasian and Gaius said goodnight, at the Gate of Fontus, to Sabinus who headed towards his house on the Aventine preceded by his lictors.
With their crossroads brethren surrounding them, Vespasian and Gaius sauntered up the Quirinal Hill, alive with the rumble of carts and wagons and the shouts of the drivers doing their night-time deliveries – they had been banned in the city in daylight hours since the time of Julius Caesar.
Gaius sweated profusely and wheezed with every breath as he dragged his copious bulk up the hill to his front door. ‘Will you go home to Pomegranate Street, dear boy?’
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