Vespasian kept his face neutral and said nothing.
‘You’d be more interested in seeing Nero’s assassination and the start of the struggle to succeed him from the point of view of being the Governor of a province with legions. And so, when things calm down and Nero thinks to reward you for saving his life, that’s what you’ll hope for. Syria or one of the Rhenus or Danuvius provinces; then we shall wait and see.’
Vespasian gave no indication of agreeing or disagreeing.
Sura slapped Vespasian on the back. ‘I can see that my decision to marry my daughter into your family is a sensible one. Once we’ve got Titus his quaestorship, then ... well, then we shall see what else we can purchase with my family’s money.’
‘You’re a generous man, Sura.’
‘No. I’m an ambitious one. But sensible enough to realise that without a glowing military record I won’t stand a chance of rising to the top in the chaotic aftermath of Nero’s death, so I need the patronage of someone who does.’
‘Gaius Vespasius Pollo,’ a Praetorian tribune standing at the doorway to Pomegranate Street called out, as the wedding party arrived.
Gaius looked in alarm at the tribune as he made his way towards him, through the wedding party. ‘What is it?’
He held out a scroll. ‘An order from the Emperor.’
Gaius paled and took it with a shaking hand. ‘Dear gods.’
Vespasian’s stomach lurched.
Gaius unrolled the scroll, glanced at it, went even paler, and then handed it to Vespasian.
‘The bastards!’ Vespasian spat having read it.
Caenis moved towards him. ‘What is it, my love?’
‘Seneca wrote to the Emperor as he was dying last night to say that Gaius was the go-between between him and Piso.’
‘But that’s nonsense.’
‘Of course it is and Nero says here that he would not have believed it, especially as it was me and Sabinus who exposed the plot. He thought it was just Seneca having his malicious revenge and was going to ignore it until one of the conspirators independently backed up the accusation.’
‘Who?’
‘Corvinus. Gods below; what have I done?’
Gaius trembled. ‘You’ve cost me my life, dear boy; by nightfall I’m to be dead.’
Vespasian looked around the faces of his family as the remains of a sombre meal were cleared away by four of Gaius’ exquisite, blond boys; it had not been the celebratory occasion that it should have been on a wedding day, far from it. The rituals of the marriage had gone ahead and it was duly consummated but none of the guests had the heart to feel any joy and all thought that Gaius’ death sentence was the worst possible omen for the union.
Gaius, himself, had said his goodbyes to the couple and then left the wedding immediately, with Magnus, and returned home to put his affairs in order and to instruct his cook to prepare the finest meal he had ever made.
It was the remains of this that were now being taken away and, as each plate disappeared and the sun began its journey into the west, Vespasian knew that the time, the unavoidable time, was drawing ever nearer.
Vespasian turned to his uncle, reclining next to him. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle, we should have asked you to join us when we went to expose the conspiracy to Nero. That would have kept you safe from false accusations. We just didn’t think.’
Gaius roused himself out of the reverie he had gradually fallen into as the meal had progressed and drained his cup without giving the vintage the attention it deserved. ‘Of course you thought; or, rather, you didn’t need to think as it was obvious what I would have said had you asked me.’
Vespasian’s smile was rueful. ‘You would have said that it would make you far too conspicuous to be a part of the exposure and that staying at home and studiously avoiding being noticed by anyone for either your actions or opinions was a much safer course.’
Gaius’ smile equalled that of Vespasian. ‘Something like that, dear boy. Ironic, isn’t it? I would have refused the chance of making myself immune to false accusations because I would have thought it too dangerous and wanted to keep myself safe.’
Magnus turned to Vespasian. ‘Can’t you appeal to Nero and say that you falsely implicated Corvinus and this was his way of getting his revenge?’
Caenis, to Vespasian’s right, shook her head. ‘We discussed that but who would believe it now that Corvinus is dead? Nero would just think that Vespasian was lying to save his uncle.’
‘Exactly,’ Sabinus agreed. ‘Faenius Rufus could, perhaps, have convinced Nero but he was executed this morning. Nerva tried to put in a word as a favour to me but Nero asked him whether he wanted to undo all the good he had done himself by trying to save an obvious conspirator, so, quite naturally, he backed off.’
‘Still, it was good of him to try,’ Gaius said. ‘And it shows his respect for our family, dear boys. You should cultivate Nerva as he seems to be a man of ambition.’
‘We will; seeing as he’s done so well out of the conspiracy, he’s extremely grateful to us for exposing it in the first place.’
‘Yes,’ Vespasian agreed. ‘If you look at it that way then he can be said to be in our debt.’
‘Fucking politics,’ Magnus muttered. ‘It’s a grim world in which your class lives.’
‘No grimmer than yours, old friend,’ Gaius said, putting down his cup and heaving himself to his feet. ‘I’m well aware of a lot of the very insalubrious things that you get up to in your world.’
‘That’s because I did a lot of them for you.’
Gaius chuckled and rested a hand on Magnus’ shoulder. ‘Too true, Magnus; and you shall find that well reflected in my will.’ He looked around the gathering. ‘I’ve got no cause for complaint; I’m almost seventy-five, which is far older than many of my generation reached, and I have the chance to end my life peacefully in the bath with my family around me and in the knowledge that, provided I leave a substantial bequest to the Emperor, they will inherit the main part of my estate. I’ve lived my life as I wanted to and not many people can say that.’ His eye roved over four slaves clearing up. ‘Leave that, boys, it’s time to say goodbye.’ He smiled at his guests and headed out of the triclinium followed by his beautiful property. ‘I won’t be long.’
Gaius handed Vespasian his will as he emerged from his bedroom into the atrium, where the family was gathered to wait for him, some while later; he was dressed solely in a loose, white linen robe. ‘Save it until I’m gone, dear boy. I’ve left you my boys as they are too young to free; the three slaves over thirty I’ve manumitted, they will count you or Sabinus as their patron. You’ll have to sort that out between you. But the young lads are yours; I know you won’t have much personal use for them, but please keep them for my sake; they’re dear to me and have given me a lot of pleasure. Your freedman, Hormus, might enjoy them.’
Vespasian tried to look pleased at the bequest. ‘I shall offer him the ... er, opportunity when he gets back from Africa.’
‘I’m sure he’ll grab it with both hands,’ Magnus said, ‘if you take my meaning?’
Everyone did but no one was in the mood for levity.
Gaius looked around the room and sighed. ‘It’s strange, I was once told by a soothsayer that I would die in my own house; a prediction that I took a lot of comfort in. I didn’t suspect that it would be at my own hand.’ He shook his head with regret and led them from the atrium. ‘I’m told that my bath is full and warm and my blade is sharp; so I see no further need for delay.’
Caenis held Vespasian’s hand as they followed Gaius to his bath house at the far end of the courtyard garden; high clouds above Rome burned with the evening sun as it sank for the last time in Gaius’ life.
The bath house was brightly lit with many lamps and candles so that the marble walls and domed roof radiated golden warmth. In the centre of the room was a sunken bath, lined with aquatic-themed mosaics, mainly fish of differing species that seemed to swim as the warm water filling the bath ripple
d. Around the bath were set chairs for Gaius’ guests. A knife lay on a low table next to the bath.
With a bravery that Vespasian had not expected of his uncle, Gaius did not hesitate; he slipped off his robe and lowered himself into the bath; water, displaced by his huge bulk, slopped over the sides wetting his guests’ feet as they took their seats. Openly weeping for their master, Gaius’ boys lined the walls to complete a sombre scene.
Gaius picked up the knife and ran his finger along the blade and then nodded with satisfaction. ‘That should do.’ He looked up. ‘Well, my friends, it’s time I saw what the Ferryman is made of; he’ll have to work hard to row me across. I have to say, it was not a journey I was expecting to make today when I got up this morning.’
‘Master! Master! Wait!’ Gaius’ steward came running through the door; he held a sealed scroll. ‘This has just arrived for you.’
All present felt a thrill of hope in their hearts.
Gaius looked at the scroll, but did not take it. ‘You read it, Vespasian.’
Vespasian unrolled it and read aloud: ‘“I hope I timed this correctly. Hopefully, about now, just before sunset, Gaius Vespasius Pollo is opening his veins. This letter would have given everyone hopes of a last-moment reprieve. I’m sorry to disappoint you as it is no more than a message from beyond the grave. I am avenged, Bumpkin. Corvinus.”’ Vespasian’s hands shook with rage. ‘The cunt! I thought it really was a rescindment of the sentence.’ He screwed up the scroll and hurled it into a corner.
‘I never did, dear boy,’ Gaius said, contemplating the knife. ‘I never did. Life is not like that.’ With a jerk he slit his left wrist lengthways and, even as the blood spurted, swapped hands and opened the right in the same manner.
The bath turned red; Gaius lay the knife down, leant his head back on the edge and closed his eyes; he gave a sigh that could have been construed as being either of contentment or regret. ‘So be it. Farewell, all of you. And, Vespasian, look after my dear boys.’
Vespasian gripped Caenis’ hand and felt tears of grief and shame trickle down his face; he watched his uncle bleed out, knowing full well that it was his fault. In his pursuit of vengeance, Vespasian had brought about the death of his uncle, Gaius.
EPILOGUE
THRACIA, APRIL AD 67
IT HAD BEEN a long six months and for three of them there had been snow on the ground and a bitter north wind that ripped across the plain. Vespasian put his arm around Caenis as they watched five riders approach, from the south, over the expanse of grassland that had been their home during their exile; an exile for which Vespasian blamed no one but himself.
It had been a foolish thing to do and it had displeased Nero even more than it would have done had Tiridates, the recently crowned King of Armenia, not been at the recital. Indeed, the recital had been to celebrate Nero crowning Tiridates in Rome, not just once, but twice as the Emperor had enjoyed the first time so much. He had used the occasion to present himself as the supreme monarch of the world, seating himself on a curule chair on the rostra in the Forum Romanum, wearing Triumphal Dress and surrounded by military insignia and standards; the very image of a martial emperor had his physique not belied the fact. Tiridates had been made to walk up a ramp and then prostrate himself at Nero’s feet; Nero had then stretched out a hand to the younger brother of the Great King of Parthia, raised him up, kissed him and then placed a kingly diadem on his head to the roars of a crowd so huge that not one roof tile could be seen, such was the competition for a vantage point. It was with tears streaming down his face that Nero exchanged courtesies with the new king and then ordered the doors of the Temple of Janus to be closed and declared that there marked the end of war.
So much had Nero enjoyed being the bestower of kingdoms that he restaged the whole event in the Theatre of Pompey later, emphasising to the crowd just how magnanimous he had been, before performing an ode that he had composed especially for the occasion.
And that was where the problem had arisen: it had been long, very long, even for Nero’s standards; and all knew that it was absolutely forbidden, on pain of death almost, to leave during the rendition, whatever the excuse. Indeed, a woman in the upper tiers of the theatre had given birth at around the halfway point, her screams muffled by her neighbours.
As Nero had ploughed on, verse after self-praising verse, the sun had reached its zenith and the combination of heat and boredom became a soporific cocktail too strong to resist. Vespasian’s snores had disturbed the enjoyment of the newly crowned king, who had glanced in his direction; his splutters and snorts as Caenis hurriedly awoke him caused Nero to stumble on a line, in outrage. And then, to everyone’s horror, he started the whole composition again from the very beginning announcing, with a vicious stare in Vespasian’s direction, that it must be heard without pause for his genius to be truly appreciated. It had been at that point that one enterprising spectator had feigned death and been carried from the auditorium as it was considered unlucky to have a corpse in the audience.
It was with great haste that Vespasian and Caenis had departed the theatre upon the eventual completion of the ode, losing themselves in the crush of people anxious to be away before the Emperor decided that his talent had not been thoroughly enough displayed to the eastern potentate. And they had not stopped such was Vespasian’s fear of Nero’s wrath for spoiling his performance. Moreover, Vespasian was still nervous of the Emperor’s feelings towards him in the wake of his much-mourned uncle’s forced suicide for his supposed role in the Pisonian conspiracy. From Brundisium, where they had taken ship to Epirus, Vespasian had sent Sabinus a letter saying that he would remain in hiding until the Emperor either forgave the insult or forgot about it, neither outcome seeming likely at the time. As to where they were headed he said that if they needed to be found, Magnus would know where to look bearing in mind that he had Caenis with him.
And thus, forty years after he had first come to this place, he had brought Caenis back to the land of her ancestors, the land of the Caenii in Thracia; the land from which, as a babe in arms, Caenis had been taken, along with her mother, as a slave to Rome. The land that she did not know existed until Vespasian returned with the tale of how her amulet of Caeneus had saved his life when he, Magnus, Corbulo and Centurion Faustus, as prisoners of the Caenii, had been about to fight to the death. The tribe’s chieftain, Coronus, had recognised the amulet and upon questioning Vespasian it had become apparent that he was Caenis’ uncle. He had spared Vespasian and his companions’ lives and Vespasian had promised to one day bring Caenis back to the land of her forebears. This promise he had now made good but not in the circumstances he would have wished.
Vespasian squinted and shook his head. ‘Your eyes are better than mine; can you make them out?’
Caenis peered into the distance. ‘I think they’re wearing uniforms under their travel cloaks; they must be official.’
Vespasian’s stomach lurched. ‘Praetorians?’
‘It’s too distant to tell for sure; they’re not wearing helmets, just hats.’
‘How have they found us?’
‘You don’t know that they have; it might be just a chance visit.’
Vespasian gestured about the landscape; other than the distant mountains to the north and west there was nothing to be seen. It was featureless grassland apart from the huge bowl, on whose lip they stood, in which the Caenii had their main settlement making it invisible until a traveller was almost upon it. ‘Who comes here by chance?’
Caenis shaded her eyes. ‘A couple of the riders are civilian; one of them is a less than competent horseman. I imagine that the soldiers are their escort.’ She strained even harder. ‘I think they’ve got some dogs with them.’
‘Hunters, perhaps? Well, I don’t think that we should hang around to meet them; let’s get back down and get out of sight.’ Vespasian turned and jogged back down the slope.
Caenis waited a few moments, still trying to make out the new arrivals, before following him down.
Despite being in his late seventies, Coronus still held sway over the Caenii and, even though Thracia had been incorporated into the Empire twenty years previously, Roman rule was hardly noticed. The taxes the tribe paid now went to the Roman Governor rather than to the king and their young men now enlisted in Rome’s auxiliary cohorts rather than in the royal army. Other than that, life had gone on as normal after the annexation and the Caenii had been left to themselves to breed their horses and fish their rivers, so it was with surprise that Coronus received the news of approaching Romans; he rubbed the end of his nose where the tip had been cut off in a skirmish long forgotten. ‘I’ll send one of my grandsons to meet them.’ He turned to a young man with wild red hair, protruding from beneath a fox-fur cap, and a beard to match, lounging on a bench by the doorway of the chieftain’s hall. ‘Caeneus, go and find out what these strangers want.’
Caeneus acknowledged his grandfather’s wishes and disappeared through the door.
‘In the meantime you had better stay here; and I’ll deny all knowledge of you if it’s you that they’re looking for.’
Caenis took Coronus’ hand. ‘You are very kind, Uncle.’
The old man smiled down at his newly discovered niece, twenty years his junior. ‘I know many people in this world who would never accuse me of that vice.’
Judging by the fierceness of Coronus’ features, enhanced by his mutilated nose, Vespasian could well believe that assertion and, indeed, had suffered the proof of it when he had been captured by the Caenii. ‘Don’t resist if they resort to force, Coronus; I wouldn’t want you or your people to suffer on our account. You’ve sheltered us for six months now, that’s plenty of time for news of people hiding with the Caenii to get out and reach the wrong ears.’
‘It won’t come to that; there are only five of them.’
‘Five Praetorian centurions with a mandate from the Emperor are hard to resist; if they return empty-handed or not at all then your tribe will suffer. It’s standard practice.’
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