Rome's Sacred Flame

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘Nero is interrogating Decianus as we speak.’

  ‘No doubt he’s saying anything that Nero wants to hear.’

  ‘They all are. Lucanus the poet even denounced his own mother, Acilia, earlier when he was promised immunity; a promise that Nero went back on immediately after he had the name and promptly sentenced him to death. He’s not in a stable state to say the least; Poppaea has joined him in an attempt to calm him down. He’s refusing to leave the domed room until the conspiracy is completely quashed. Even then, he’s nervous of another one emerging so, apparently, he’s given orders to prepare a journey to Greece where he intends to compete in all the games and festivals so that everyone can see what an artist he is and all thoughts of wanting him dead will disappear.’

  ‘I think he’s rather missed the point,’ Sabinus observed. ‘Still, I wouldn’t mind him going away for a few months; I expect that it will be welcomed by everyone who survives this.’

  Caenis smiled. ‘You’ll be all right, Sabinus, provided you remain Urban prefect you’ll have to stay here along with the other magistrates. But he plans to take the rest of the Senate with him so that you can watch him perform.’

  Vespasian groaned.

  ‘And he’s expecting all the wives to come as well; so, my love, although I’m not official, I’ll join you and try to keep you awake.’

  ‘That’s some consolation, I suppose.’

  ‘You could sound a little more enthusiastic.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be for a while yet as Tiridates has only just set out from Armenia to receive his crown from Nero’s hand here in Rome; he won’t want to leave until—’

  A polite cough interrupted them. A palace functionary stood nearby. ‘The Emperor has sent for you.’

  It was a broken Decianus who was dragged, by two Guardsmen, out of the domed room as Vespasian waited with Sabinus to go in.

  As their eyes met, Decianus blurted: ‘I’m to be executed! Not even given the chance of taking my own life because of those foul lies you told about the black pearls. And I wasn’t even a part of Piso’s plot.’

  Vespasian feigned concern. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Decianus.’

  ‘You can vouch for me, Vespasian; you can tell the Emperor that I’m too venal, too self-serving, too cowardly, even, to contemplate being a part of the conspiracy. You could tell him that, couldn’t you?’

  ‘I could, Decianus, I really could because it would not be a lie; you are all of those things and more. But can you think of one reason why I should, after all that you have done to me? Turning my own son into a spy in my own house; blackmailing my wife, just to name two of them. Let’s forget leaving me and my friends to die at the hands of Boudicca. No, Decianus, I won’t do what you ask; I won’t help you because if I did I would have wasted my time getting you where you are.’

  Decianus exploded with fury as the two Guardsmen dragged him off. ‘You!’

  ‘Of course; and it was my pleasure.’ Vespasian turned away as Tigellinus signalled from the doorway that they should enter. He walked into the Emperor’s presence with the sound of Decianus’ protests in his ears as he was hauled off to his death.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Nero almost screamed the question as Vespasian and Sabinus entered the room, passing four Germanic Bodyguards.

  Poppaea, sitting next to her husband, winced at the volume.

  ‘Who, Princeps?’ Sabinus asked.

  Nero jumped up from his chair and stamped his foot. ‘Who! Seneca, of course! Piso’s gone and he’s left me much in his will; what of Seneca? Is he dead?’

  ‘He was still alive when we left him, Princeps.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Calm yourself, my dear,’ Poppaea said, standing and placing a soothing hand on his arm whilst stroking the swell of her belly. ‘You’ll disturb our child.’

  Nero slapped off the hand. ‘Fuck the child! Keep out of this, woman.’ He faced back up to the brothers; there was no melodramatic posturing, no acting out of emotion; just panic; sheer, terrified panic. ‘Why did you leave him before he was dead? Did you tell him the sentence?’

  ‘We did, Princeps,’ Vespasian said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we left him to carry it out.’

  ‘Left him! Did he show signs that he was about to open his veins?’

  Vespasian swallowed and looked at Sabinus and then back at a panting, puce Nero. ‘He was sitting in his tablinum reviewing his will.’

  ‘Not sitting in his bath with his veins open?’

  ‘No, Princeps.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘My dear, calm; the child.’

  ‘Fuck the child, woman! It’s my life that I’m concerned about. Seneca lives and who knows what he might plan.’ He turned, terror in his eyes, to Tigellinus, standing next to the closed door. ‘Send a tribune to see it done.’

  With a vicious smile, Tigellinus nodded. ‘Gavius Silvanus will do it, Princeps; you can rely on him, unlike these two bunglers.’ He stalked from the room.

  Nero turned his attention back to the brothers. ‘Twentyseven so far! Twenty-seven! Including two of my Praetorians, Sulpicius and Subrius! They were there this morning, in the same room with me when I was questioning Natalis and Scaevinus! They were armed, they could have killed me. Me! The greatest artist to have ever lived.’

  ‘My dear—’

  ‘Be quiet, woman! They could have killed me! Do you know what Subrius said when I asked him why he wanted me dead?’

  Vespasian shook his head. ‘What, Princeps?’

  ‘He said that he hated me! Hated me! He said that I killed my wife and my mother; such lies! Everyone knows that they had to be executed because they were plotting against me; I didn’t kill them! And then he called me an arsonist. Me! It was the followers of that crucified Jew; everyone knows that; you told them so, didn’t you, Sabinus? No one hates me! How could anyone hate me? I’m too perfect!’

  ‘My dear, please—’

  In one move Nero swivelled and lashed out with his foot.

  Poppaea screamed as the force of the blow crushed her belly, knocking her back to crash to the floor. Her head cracked on the marble and she lay still.

  For a moment there was silence as all stared in shock at Poppaea, inert on the floor, her legs apart and one arm under her back; a small rivulet of blood seeped from under her head.

  Nero screamed and tore at his hair.

  Poppaea convulsed; her legs juddered and her belly spasmed.

  Despite himself and what he felt for her, Vespasian ran forward and knelt at her side; she was breathing irregularly. Again there was a spasm in her belly; a small, red stain blossomed on her saffron stola between her spread legs.

  Nero screamed again and doubled over, his head in his hands.

  Sabinus jumped to Vespasian’s aid and looked around, helpless, useless.

  Tigellinus dashed back into the room.

  Poppaea’s eyes snapped open; pain twisted her face. She convulsed again and the blossoming stain flowered. With a piercing shriek, she sat up and stared at the bloodstain growing between her legs; her stola now clung to her form, such was the flow. ‘My child! My chi—’ A reflex scream cut the word short; pain adding shrill resonance to the sound. She clutched her groin with both hands.

  ‘Get a doctor!’ Vespasian shouted at Tigellinus. ‘Or a midwife or just a woman! Someone who might know what to do.’

  Tigellinus turned and ran.

  Nero continued to howl and rage, his head going up and down, his arms scrambling in thin air as if he were trying to gain purchase and climb away from his crime.

  The red stain spread and was now forming a puddle on the soaking linen.

  Poppaea had paled; her screaming ceased and her chest heaved in distress and fear as she gasped in air in choked, erratic gulps.

  Vespasian and Sabinus each put an arm around her shoulder, supporting her in an effort to calm her. But Poppaea was not to be calmed and, with bloodied hands, scrat
ched at their faces as Nero continued to claw at the air, howling like a moonstruck hound.

  ‘Get away from her!’ The voice was authoritative.

  Vespasian and Sabinus leapt back, relieved to be clear of the lashing nails as Caenis ran in with Tigellinus close behind her. She braved Poppaea’s flaying arms and firmly put her down on her back. ‘Hold her there.’

  Vespasian and Sabinus did as they were asked as Caenis pulled up Poppaea’s stola, blood dripped from the fabric. With deft fingers she undid the knots of the loincloth and pulled it open.

  Vespasian choked back a gorge-full of vomit. A thing of gore moved within the cloth; a thing that could rest in the palm of his hand. A tiny limb clawed at the air as if in imitation of its father; then it was still. Caenis pulled at the loincloth so that it came free; the foetus flopped into the puddle of blood.

  Poppaea’s struggles diminished by gradual stages.

  Wringing out the loincloth, Caenis screwed it into a tight ball and rammed it between Poppaea’s legs as Epaphroditus came running in. ‘The doctor is on his way, Princeps,’ he said, putting a hand on Nero’s shoulder. Nero showed no sign of noticing and continued to howl at the domed ceiling.

  Poppaea’s breaths became weaker and remained erratic as Caenis held the cloth in place but it was fast becoming saturated again. Vespasian let go of Poppaea’s shoulder; it was now obvious that she did not need to be restrained.

  Caenis looked up at Vespasian. ‘What happened?’

  He nodded towards the clearly demented Emperor who seemed to be calming as Epaphroditus whispered in his ear. ‘He kicked her full in the stomach; I saw the sole of his foot crush it right in. The child never stood a chance.’

  Caenis assessed the flow of blood as the doctor arrived. ‘Nor does she.’

  ‘Let me see her,’ the doctor said, kneeling down, frowning and pushing Caenis’ hands away.

  Vespasian glanced across to Sabinus and whispered: ‘I don’t think that it would be a good idea if we’re left holding the body.’

  Sabinus understood immediately and rose to his feet.

  ‘I’ll stay,’ Caenis said, ‘I may be of help.’

  Vespasian followed his brother and headed for the door as the doctor examined an empress already more than halfway to the Ferryman. Nero’s howls had decreased; Epaphroditus had managed to bring him back to some sort of reality.

  He stared down at the fading body of his wife. ‘What will of the gods could have caused that?’ His voice was weak and rasped in his throat. ‘One moment, she was fine, and then ...’ He sobbed. ‘And then she was on the floor bleeding. My child; my beloved child is gone. I tried to save him; I tried, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, Princeps, you tried; we all saw you,’ Epaphroditus said, his voice soothing as he and Tigellinus led Nero to a couch.

  Vespasian walked through the door, leaving the Emperor to concoct his version of reality that would reflect well on himself and not be the cause of any personal anguish.

  ‘He’ll never admit that he did it,’ Vespasian said once they were a good distance away from the domed room.

  ‘Yes,’ Sabinus agreed. ‘He’ll probably never even admit to himself that she’s dead. And we’ll never admit that we were present. With luck he’ll drive all real memory of the event from his mind.’

  ‘If he still has a mind,’ Vespasian pointed out. ‘At one point I thought he was completely gone.’

  ‘What’s going on, Bumpkin?’

  Vespasian turned as they came back into the atrium, and saw Corvinus, seated, with a couple of Praetorian centurions watching over him.

  ‘What was all the screaming about?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Corvinus. But it sounded like the Emperor.’

  Corvinus looked concerned. ‘I’m supposed to be pleading my case to him; prove my innocence of being a member of Piso’s conspiracy. Antonius Natalis accused me and now he’s being given full immunity because he named so many. Nerva hasn’t stopped arresting people all day; he seems to be thoroughly enjoying it.’ A wicked gleam came into his eyes. ‘I think I’ll accuse you, Vespasian, in return for immunity if I can’t persuade Nero of my innocence.’

  Vespasian curled his lip. ‘You could try, Corvinus, in fact please do. But we were the ones who exposed it; I don’t think you’ll be believed. If I were you, I’d send a message home to make sure that one of your slaves is sharpening your knives and filling your bath. I don’t think that you’ll have any problem conducting yourself as a dead man in the future as you once swore to do.’

  Corvinus sneered. ‘Bumpkin!’

  Vespasian smiled and walked away. ‘Dead man!’

  ‘Apparently Seneca took all night to bleed out, and he spent a lot of it writing letters,’ Gaius informed Vespasian, Sabinus, Caenis and Magnus the following morning as they gathered at Sura’s house for Titus’ marriage to Marcia Furnilla. ‘His blood hardly flowed and in the end his people had to take him into his steambath where he suffocated in the steam. His wife tried to kill herself too but they bandaged her wrists and she survived.’ Gaius was evidently enjoying the details. ‘Over forty people have been convicted, including your friends, Corvinus and Decianus.’ Gaius looked quizzically at Vespasian. ‘A lucky coincidence or one of the perks of uncovering the conspiracy?’

  Vespasian strove to look innocent. ‘I heard that Corvinus was allowed suicide and his family will retain much of his estate, unlike Decianus.’

  ‘All the senators condemned to death were allowed suicide, the equestrians and Praetorians were executed. More than half of the guilty were lucky enough to only be exiled.’

  ‘Lucky?’ Magnus scoffed. ‘Lucky to have your wealth taken away and then be forced to spend the rest of your life in some arsehole of the Empire with only a few goats for intelligent conversation? Bollocks. You show me one senator or equestrian who would take that option over suicide and saving his family’s status.’

  Gaius contemplated this as Titus’ party arrived to cheers and the usual ribald remarks.

  ‘Someone must have named Faenius Rufus last night too, I assume,’ Sabinus said as they followed the groom into the house. ‘I don’t know the details but I heard this morning that Nerva has been awarded Triumphal Ornaments for exposing Rufus; Nymphidius Sabinus has been made Praetorian prefect and I’m going to have a new prefect of the Vigiles once Nero gets over his period of mourning and feels that he can put his mind to it.’

  Vespasian was unsurprised. ‘Nymphidius getting his reward for his part in the fire. And now I suppose there’ll be a scramble by some seriously poisonous bitches to become the new Empress.’

  ‘That position seems to have been filled already,’ Caenis said, her voice shaky.

  This time Vespasian was surprised. ‘That was quick; who?’

  Caenis shuddered at the thought. ‘That pretty young slave boy who looks remarkably like Poppaea.’

  ‘The one that stood in for her on her wedding night because of her advanced pregnancy,’ Gaius said, scandalised.

  ‘Sporus,’ Vespasian said.

  ‘“Spunk” in Greek,’ Sabinus reminded them.

  Caenis shuddered again. ‘Well, he won’t be producing any more of that, that’s for sure. Once Poppaea was dead, Nero had Epaphroditus fetch the lad and made the doctor castrate him then and there; I had to assist. It was the full version, not just, you know ... I’ve never heard such screams. Anyway, Nero has given Sporus all Poppaea’s clothes, wigs and jewellery and said that if he survives his operation, he will marry him on his tour of Greece, at one of the festivals, and he, or she as I suppose Nero thinks of him now, will be empress.’

  Vespasian shook his head in disbelief as the bride and groom had their hands joined together. ‘So in his mind he hasn’t killed Poppaea at all.’

  ‘No, for him it is as if it had never happened; he was even calling Sporus “Poppaea” as his genitals were removed.’

  Vespasian turned his attention back to the ceremony, wondering just what the Greeks would make of their
Emperor marrying a freshly castrated slave boy at one of their religious festivals and then proclaiming him to be the Empress Poppaea. ‘Is there no taboo he won’t break?’

  *

  It was through a sombre city that the wedding party walked. Business was carrying on as usual but the traditional shouts of ‘Talassio’, wishing the happy couple luck, were far less exuberant than they could normally be expected to be; even the enthusiasm for walnut throwing was muted and the newly-weds were showered with fewer nuts that fell from a lesser height. The wedding party themselves attempted to make up for the public’s indifference and Vespasian had shouted himself almost hoarse by the time they were approaching his old house in Pomegranate Street, which he had given to Titus as a wedding present.

  ‘You and your brother made more than a few enemies exposing that plot,’ Sura said, moving next to Vespasian. ‘Some say that you have blood on your hands.’

  Vespasian cast a sidelong glance at Sura. ‘I notice that you didn’t call the wedding off.’

  ‘I don’t know any man who hasn’t got blood on his hands to some degree. Besides, I can appreciate your calculation: you had nothing to gain from Piso becoming emperor.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have; Seneca was to double-cross him and take the Purple for himself by paying massive donatives to the legions and bribing the Governors of militarised provinces.’

  Sura could not conceal his surprise. ‘Was he now? Well, that might have worked because the legions will have a big say in what happens after Nero; someone like Piso can’t just expect to make himself emperor and assume that the legions will all swear allegiance to him. My brother, Soranus, will be doubly relieved that he refused Piso’s offer of a consulship should he join him.’

  ‘Only a fool would have joined that conspiracy.’

  ‘True. But soon there will be a successful one; one involving the legions.’ Sura gave Vespasian a shrewd look. ‘I believe that was you and your brother’s calculation. Neither of you were in a position to gain because neither of you controlled any legions; granted, Sabinus does have the three Urban Cohorts and the seven Vigiles Cohorts, but he would hardly have been able to take advantage of the upheaval with that force. Am I right?’