Rome's Sacred Flame

by Robert Fabbri

  Vespasian shook his head. ‘No, I’ll go to Caenis’ house. Flavia didn’t know that I’m back but I’m sure Corvinus would have told her as he, well ... I’ll give her some time to master her shame. I expect that there are going to be a lot of very difficult conversations going on around the city for the next few days.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, dear boy; it makes me very relieved that I’ve never ventured into matrimony. Mind you, if Nero sets a new fashion I might very well be tempted.’

  ‘I wonder who the unfortunate man is.’

  ‘Doryphorus,’ Caenis said, laying her head on Vespasian’s shoulder and stroking his broad chest. ‘Nero has been infatuated with him for some time now, or so Seneca tells me; he’s an imperial freedman, which makes it even more scandalous.’

  Vespasian frowned in the dark, his brow still moist from the sweat of sex on a steamy night. ‘Yes, I know him; he was the one who held Britannicus down as Nero raped him. But what has he got to gain by marrying him?’

  ‘Apparently, and don’t laugh, he has always wanted to be a bride. Seneca says that he’s had a wedding gown made and a wig dressed in a bridal manner. And to add sacrilege to farce he’s going to have the ceremony conducted in the Temple of Vesta on the basis that the Sacred Flame has been considered the hearth-fire of the Emperor since Augustus’ time and the bride takes a torch lit from her father’s hearth-fire to ignite that of her new husband.’

  Vespasian chuckled at the absurdity of it all. ‘And where does Doryphorus live?’

  ‘That’s easy to guess.’

  ‘In Nero’s palace on the Palatine?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And we’ve got to bear witness to such a mockery.’

  ‘Indeed, my love; and then we will toast the happy couple and wait around whilst the marriage is consummated.’ This thought was too much for Caenis and she disintegrated into a fit of giggling.

  Vespasian, too, could not help himself. ‘I wonder what colour the stains on the sheet will be when they bring it out to prove that the bride was a virgin?’

  Laughing in the dark with the woman he loved, having made good and strenuous love, gave Vespasian a feeling of ease that he had not had since he had begun his journey south to the Kingdom of the Garamantes; here in the small sleeping cubicle in Caenis’ house, not far from his and his uncle’s residences on the Quirinal Hill, he felt insulated from the folly and depravity that so darkened the lives of Rome’s élite. In the slow descent into maniacal insanity that had been the journey of the Julio-Claudian emperors since the final years of Tiberius, never had the fear enveloping the city felt as heavy as it had done that evening; and yet here, in Caenis’ chamber, he was protected from it. He held her close and nuzzled her hair, revelling in its scent. ‘I love you,’ he whispered, feeling the emotion just as strongly as he had when it had been new thirty-eight years previously.

  ‘And I love you too, my love,’ Caenis replied, her voice gentle and soothing.

  Vespasian smiled to himself, closed his eyes and, banishing the memories of a hideous evening, relaxed into sleep.

  It was with a sense of holiday that the people of Rome turned out, ten to twelve deep, along the route, to cheer their Emperor as he processed, regaled as a virgin bride, down from the Palatine to the circular Temple of Vesta at its foot on the edge of the Forum Romanum. The conical hair arrangement, the flame-coloured shoes and matching palla were all as they should be; there was nothing to suggest that this was anything other than a bride, except, perhaps, the beard, visible intermittently as the veil swayed with Nero’s exaggeratedly feminine gait. But the people of Rome seemed not to notice such a small detail and cheered their Emperor until they were hoarse. If he wanted to marry a man then let him, was the general opinion of the lower orders, as then, if it gave him joy, he was more likely to flood them with generosity. Nero had never been parsimonious in his willingness to purchase the love of the people and they, in turn, were ever happy to be bought and they loved him for it more than they had loved any emperor before. And evidence of Nero’s willingness to secure his position with the love of the people had appeared all over the city in the form of kitchens and tables in preparation for the wedding feast to which the happy couple had invited the entire city. Thus it was with the aromas of roasting pork and baking bread wafting around him that Vespasian, with a very taciturn Flavia next to him, watched the Emperor arrive at the heart of Rome: the temple in which resided the flame that would burn eternally, preserving the city from all harm.

  The chief Vestal, the elderly Domitia, met him beneath the portico with her five subordinates, arranged in seniority down to the beautiful teenager, Rubria, and then the seven-year-old new intake, Cornelia, behind her. Their veils, leaving their eyes exposed, failed to completely mask the disgust that they felt at such sacrilege but if Nero noticed their thoughts he made no mention of it; he followed the priestesses through into the goddess’s presence, there to await the arrival of his husband to be. It was only a few of the senators’ wives, Flavia amongst them, who entered with the Emperor, all in a very sombre mood after the ordeals of the previous evening; the men remained outside in the rising temperature as the heatwave that had afflicted the city for the past half month tightened further its baking grip.

  Once again there was a forced air of joviality amongst the senators as they awaited the arrival of the groom and his party; however, the normal bawdy remarks were overlooked for fear of exposing the farce through humour and the entire wedding party dissolving into unrestrained mirth at the ludicrousness of the situation.

  Vespasian managed to keep his expression fixed as one of pleasure and stood, unlike Gaius who was keen to be seen enjoying the festivities, on the edge of the crowd of senators, uneager to be too conspicuous for fear of coming to the attention of the bride who might remember his pearls.

  ‘A most unusual ... now what should I call it? Ah, yes, event; a joyous event, that’s just the word for it: an unusual joyous event,’ Seneca said, sidling up to Vespasian, his look solemn. ‘I imagine it’s the first of its kind; I can certainly find no record of anything similar in the annals of the city.’

  Vespasian looked at Nero’s former tutor and advisor, wondering if he was being serious. ‘A joyous event.’ Vespasian’s tone was dry.

  ‘As everybody here would agree.’ Seneca’s porcine eyes sparkled with mischief but his expression remained serious. ‘Let us hope it’s the last such event that we witness.’

  ‘What do you mean, Seneca?’

  ‘You know perfectly well what I’m implying.’

  ‘You too?’

  ‘What have I to lose? It’s a matter of time until I’m told to, er ... how shall I put it? Yes, make an appointment with the Ferryman. Yes, I shall be forced to greet him, having left my fortune, what remains of it, to Nero. What have I to lose, Vespasian?’

  Subdued cheers, as the groom and his party arrived, interrupted the conversation. Tall and muscular with startling green eyes and manly, rugged features, the freedman Doryphorus swaggered through the crowd, grinning with a smugness that nauseated. His escort, lowlife sycophants with disreputable morals whom Nero kept solely for the purpose of buggery, so Seneca informed Vespasian, played their part and shouted the requisite ribald remarks as Doryphorus disappeared into one of the most sacred buildings in Rome.

  ‘What have any of us to lose, for that matter?’ Seneca continued once Doryphorus had gone to claim his bride. ‘Look at the sacrilege that my former charge is committing, here at the heart of Rome before her Sacred Flame. How can the city avoid disaster if this is to go on? It is our only hope; our duty even.’ Seneca’s voice was low but steeled with vehemence. ‘So tell me, what have you to lose?’

  ‘My future.’

  ‘None of us have a future.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Seneca: it’s just the people who plot against Nero who don’t have a future. I intend to keep out of it.’

  Seneca looked at Vespasian, disappointed. ‘And what of
honour?’

  ‘Honour? We all lost that last night as we watched our wives get fucked by whoever and did nothing about it; my wife has not said a word to me since, not this morning or on our way down here. She can’t even look me in the eye. So don’t talk of honour, you who wouldn’t even lend money to your own grandmother at less than twenty-five per cent interest.’

  ‘Let’s not get personal, Vespasian; how I make money has nothing to do with the subject, except, perhaps, that you might need my services very soon.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Do you know how much those pearls that you took to Garama were worth?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Over a million sesterces, although I’m told that Nero has exaggerated the value to two million now that Decianus has claimed that you’ve brought them back to Rome.’

  ‘You know perfectly well that Decianus is lying; I gave them to Nayram.’

  ‘Decianus is a slippery snake, I grant you that, but he can be most convincing. Especially when he’s saying something that Nero wants to hear. Join us and I’ll lend you the money, interest free, and you can buy your way out of that particular difficulty.’

  ‘I don’t need it; I’ll explain to Nero exactly what happened with the pearls.’

  ‘And you think that he’ll want to believe you? You need the money and we need you.’ Seneca fixed him with his porcine eyes.

  Vespasian frowned, shaking his head, wondering if there was more to this than Seneca was letting on. ‘Why? Why am I so important?’

  ‘We need someone to convince your brother to join us and we believe that you are the man to do it.’

  Vespasian finally understood. ‘You need the prefect of Rome because with him come the three Urban Cohorts and the Vigiles as well as the authority over the business of the city.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Then ask him yourself.’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘And he gave you a sensible answer, evidently.’

  ‘No, he gave me no answer; he said he wanted to consult with you upon your return. And now, here you are.’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t asked me but I made my views perfectly clear last night. And besides,’ Vespasian gestured around the seemingly endless sea of adoring faces of the common people, ‘look at them; they love him. Do you think they love us in equal measure? Of course they don’t; what do we give them in comparison with Nero? They’ll tear whoever harms him apart; you wouldn’t stand a chance, Seneca. Not until the people turn against him. That’s my answer.’

  Seneca gave a thoughtful nod, pursing pudgy lips. ‘Very well; I hope you don’t come to regret your decision.’ He turned and was gone as shouts of ‘Hymen, Hymenaeee!’ rose from the front of the crowd and Doryphorus appeared at the top of the temple steps, pulling Nero’s arms as Domitia, playing the part of the mother of the bride, tried to prevent her ‘daughter’ being taken from her. As this ritual, which went back centuries to the abduction of Sabine women in Rome’s first years, was being performed the crowd threw walnuts in the air, symbolising fertility – although there was little chance of that in this union, no matter how vigorously the newly-weds tried, Vespasian reflected as he scanned the assembly for his brother.

  Nero squealed as Domitia, her face thunderous, let go of the bride, who fell, with coquettish flamboyance, into the strong arms of her new husband before shamelessly rubbing her crotch up and down his thigh like a rutting bitch on heat. Doryphorus’ companions shouted lewd observations as the three young boys who would escort the bride, all of whom had both parents still living, looked on with unconcealed bemusement. And then the torch kindled in Vesta’s Flame was brought out and more torches were lit from it until all of the groom’s companions bore offspring from the bride’s hearth-fire. Led by Domitia and her five colleagues, the women who had witnessed the ceremony lined up behind the groom’s escorts. Now the wedding party could set off for the Palatine, Nero proudly bearing the spindle and distaff presented to him by his ‘mother’, symbolising his role as the weaving wife and everyone else lobbing walnuts in the air and shouting ‘Talassio!’, the ritual good-luck greeting for a bride whose meaning and origin were lost to time.

  And how the people of Rome greeted the newly-weds and how the bride blushed, making shows of modesty and coyness, having restrained herself after her earlier lapse in the strong arms of her husband; that passion was now being saved for the marriage bed. Now, in public, Nero presented the picture of the demure Roman bride being led to her husband’s house to consummate the marriage. Such was the bride’s happiness that tears rolled down his cheeks and wetted his beard; Nero caught a couple on his finger and showed them to those closest to him and all marvelled at the joyousness of the occasion.

  Vespasian moved through the crowd, seeking his brother, to no avail, as the procession made its way up the Palatine, cheered all the time by the throng to either side of the route, keen to feast upon the Emperor’s largesse.

  Upon arrival at the palace, Nero rubbed oil and fat into the doorframe and then draped spun wool around it to announce, without a trace of irony, his arrival to the household gods within; his gods, to whom he had sacrificed that very morning.

  Taking care not to trip, Nero stepped over the threshold and then clasped Doryphorus’ hand. ‘Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia.’ He spoke the ritual words in a soft, high voice that could almost be mistaken for that of a woman.

  Doryphorus gazed at his bride with love and gently caressed his cheek and stroked his tear-soaked facial hair. ‘Where you are Gaia, I am Gaius.’

  In filed the wedding party, into the atrium, high and elegant with tall marble columns and intricate mosaics; built by Augustus, it had been designed to put visitors in awe of the grandeur of Rome. But now the grandeur of Rome was but a sham as the great-great-grandson of the first Princeps, the First man in Rome, was led away by the matron of honour – who was meant to be a woman married only once to a husband still living and who was the incarnation of a faithful wife, but was in reality the thrice married wife of the new bride, Poppaea Sabina – to the bridal chamber to pray with her husband and prepare him for the arrival of his husband. Assisting her was a youth of striking beauty bearing a remarkable resemblance to Poppaea, who Vespasian had seen before but could not place.

  ‘It seems to get more complicated all the time,’ Sabinus whispered in Vespasian’s ear. ‘That’s Sporus helping the Empress to prepare the bride.’

  ‘Sporus? As in “seed” in Greek?’

  ‘“Spunk”, more like. He stood in for Poppaea at the consummation of her marriage to Nero due to her advanced pregnancy at the time.’

  Vespasian recalled the youth, uncannily dressed and made-up in the image of the Empress. ‘Of course, that’s where I’ve seen him before.’

  ‘Apparently Poppaea is as keen on him as Nero is, so I imagine he’s rather a busy boy.’

  Vespasian did not want to think about it. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to talk some sense into my son-in-law, Paetus; although I wonder whether he hasn’t actually talked some sense into me. I had to restrain him from,’ Sabinus leant closer to Vespasian so that no one could possibly hear, ‘from bringing a dagger to Nero’s wedding after what happened to Flavia Tertulla, his wife, last night. Suffice it to say, she’s still losing blood.’

  ‘That’s terrible; will she be all right?’

  ‘I hope so; but the doctor can’t say for sure. You can imagine how Paetus is, and I expect that there are many more like him.’

  ‘What did you mean when you said that he might have talked some sense into you?’

  Sabinus looked around to make sure that no one was too close. ‘He’s insistent that Nero has to go, and after seeing my daughter lying in bed, faint from loss of blood, I’m inclined to believe him.’

  ‘No, Sabinus; we step back and let others do that.’

  ‘I’ve been approached by Seneca.’

  �
�I know; he was trying to get me to persuade you to join his cause just now. It’s too dangerous; a plot like that can never be kept secret. Nero or Tigellinus is bound to find out. And anyway, the people wouldn’t let the assassins get away with it; what do they care for the honour of our women when Nero feeds and entertains them?’

  Sabinus gritted his teeth. ‘But look at this; how can it go on? As you said last night: “Is there no taboo he won’t break?” What next?’

  An outbreak of more ribaldry and coarse humour announced Poppaea Sabina opening the door to the bridal chamber. She signalled to the groom that all was ready inside and his bride awaited him. Doryphorus grinned and made his way at speed to the room, just off the atrium, raising clenched fists in the air, pumping them up and down as if warming up for strenuous exercise; an image that Vespasian tried to banish from his head as soon as it appeared.

  ‘Look at it this way, Sabinus,’ Vespasian continued as the wedding party settled down to await news of the happy coupling, while slaves began to circulate with drinks. ‘They’re being far too open about it already. Seneca approached both you and me in a very direct manner. Last night Piso made no secret of where he stood and then proceeded to have intense conversations with that poet, Lucanus, and what do you know of him?’

  Sabinus shrugged. ‘Other than he’s Seneca’s nephew? Only that Nero has forbidden him to publish any more of his poems out of jealousy and therefore he has personal reasons for hating Nero.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. But I meant what do you know of his character?’

  ‘That he’s a terrible gossip?’

  ‘You have it, brother; do you want to trust your life to a conspiracy with someone like Lucanus involved?’

  Sabinus did not have to think about that at all. ‘All right; so we keep out of this one. What about after that? How do we free ourselves from this? How do we ensure that things like last night never happen again?’

  ‘It has to come from outside the city, from the legions; and it has to be when the people are losing their love for Nero.’