The Course of Honour Page 31

  ‘Is it all true?’ Caenis requested. ‘Tell me it’s not.’

  ‘Afraid so. Packed for the annual fair. Irresistible. The burning was not ordered by Antonius – I have his word. It began during the siege. He could not be expected to restrain forty thousand men who had just defeated the famous legions from Germany and saw the nearby city as their personal prize.’

  Caenis was angry. ‘Murder and rape; rape and murder. Old men and children torn from hand to hand, mocked and assaulted; women and boys violated; four days of carnage. Everything plundered; looters even stealing from themselves. Then the whole city burnt! Not a building left standing – just one solitary temple, outside the city walls.’

  Sabinus looked uneasy. ‘Civil war; it’s brutal and bitter.’

  ‘This is what Vespasian has done.’

  As her passion crackled Vespasian’s brother reprimanded her briskly, ‘No; no! What he will stop, lass. Vitellius is so unpopular that if my brother did not make this claim against him someone else would. You know that. The Empire is sadly adrift. Vespasian is the best man; you must agree. There is more chance of a lasting peace at the end of this with Vespasian and his sons –’

  Caenis had relaxed fairly early in the speech, but Sabinus had always talked too much. ‘Well, then. What happens now, Sabinus?’

  ‘Our troops rest, celebrate the Saturnalia, then march on Rome. I’m talking to Vitellius constantly; he assures me he is ready to abdicate.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  In his innocence Sabinus was shocked that she asked. ‘Must do!’

  She did not wish to dishearten him; he was a good man. ‘Well done then. So . . . the Emperor Vespasian!’ Her tone softened. They had come, they both realised, to the point of his call. ‘Flavius Sabinus, don’t be embarrassed. I understand what must be done. I have been your brother’s best supporter all these years; should I offend against his reputation now? You know why I moved back here to my own house.’

  ‘You are a good friend to the Flavians.’

  He felt awkward. They both knew what his brave, clear-principled wife would have said about this.

  Caenis reassured him gently, ‘The Flavians were good friends to me.’

  So he understood; his brother’s mistress would do whatever had to be done. Caenis, the ex-secretary, would behave as she had been trained, with discretion and self-effacement. She would do it, moreover, despite anything his brother himself might say.

  Flavius Sabinus leant back his head and sighed. ‘This is very sad.’ Caenis said nothing. ‘Very sad,’ he repeated sombrely.

  He meant it. But for him, as for anyone who cared what happened to Rome, the important thing was a satisfactory resolution to the confusion, culminating in the best man taking charge. It was time to end Claudian vulgarity and scandal, time for Flavian discipline, hard work, and dedication to the public good. Time for Vespasian to be respectable again.

  So although Flavius Sabinus honestly felt that what must happen to Caenis was tragic, though he liked her, and his late wife had liked her even more, he felt she had had a good run. His sadness was the type which must be dealt with staunchly then put aside.

  ‘I have suggested,’ he told her kindly, ‘that if you feel uncomfortable in Rome, you might be allowed to live on our grandmother’s estate at Cosa.’

  Caenis drew a sharp breath. ‘And what does Caesar say to that?’

  Sabinus shifted with embarrassment. ‘No answer yet.’

  Conflicting emotions battered her. ‘It is his favourite place!’ she protested at last.

  Vespasian’s brother, who had known her as long as Vespasian himself, looked at her with a trace of the Flavian sentiment. They were poor, but they paid their debts. She would be provided for with decent courtesy. And Cosa was a good long way away. ‘Well. Think about it. I feel sure he will offer, if that is what you would like. Of course, you are quite right about the place. But you,’ acknowledged the Prefect of the City unexpectedly, ‘have always been my brother’s favourite person.’

  He was remembering the day when they discovered her, a scrawny fractious solitary girl amidst all those incongruous perfume flasks and jars. He was trying not to remember the look he had seen that day upon Vespasian’s face.

  In the last days of Vitellius, Flavius Sabinus continually attempted to bring about a peaceful resolution to the conflict before Vespasian’s two triumphant generals reached Rome.

  Antonius Primus had encountered the last remnants of the Vitellian field army without bloodshed. They met at Narnia, sixty miles north of Rome. Caenis knew Narnia; though it was on a different highway, it lay only twenty miles from Reate. The Vitellians had marched down through the Umbrian Hills to meet Primus with standards aloft and banners fluttering – but they kept their swords sheathed. They paraded through the Narnia Gap right to the point where Primus had drawn up his own men in closed ranks and full battledress on either side of the road to Rome. In silence the Flavian army parted, then simply closed around the Vitellians until the two groups stood amalgamated into one. In many ways it was the most moving sight of the entire war.

  Now Primus was waiting for Mucianus, who had been held up by a Dacian rebellion at their backs, to join him at Ocriculum. They were just forty-five miles, say two days’ standard march, from Rome. Rome lay two days away from being sacked by Roman troops. After the destruction of Cremona, the point was not lost.

  Vitellius at last agreed to abdicate. He left the Palace and made a suitable speech of renunciation in the Forum. Friends gathered at the house of Flavius Sabinus to congratulate him on the skill with which he had resolved the situation. It was all over – apparently.

  However, while attempting to leave the Palatine, Vitellius found all the roads blocked with barricades. Not knowing what else to do, he returned to the Palace. His supporters rallied to him in the night. Rumours of the change quickly spread. As Prefect of the City, Sabinus gave an order confining all troops to barracks; the order was widely ignored. Aware that Mucianus and Primus were so near, he then assembled his family, including his nephew Domitian, and seized Capitol Hill intending to make a stand until the Flavian generals arrived.

  The Capitol, founded by the Roman Kings then completed under the free Republic, had stood throughout the centuries whatever else barbarians managed to assault. It had survived Rome’s sack by marauding Gallic tribes. It had survived the invasion of Lars Porsenna in times so ancient no one was certain any longer whether they were history or myth. The citadel had been destroyed once by accident, but never in war. The Flavians seemed pretty safe.

  It was the night of 18 December. It was raining again, all night. In the pitch black no one could tell friend from foe; watchwords went unrecognised or unheard. Even so the cordon flung around the citadel by Vitellius was so loose that messages from Sabinus passed in and out easily. But then next day Vitellian soldiers attacked on two sides; some climbed the Hundred Steps from the Clivus Capitolinus, others broke in on the opposite side by way of the Gemonian Steps. What had seemed casual now became desperate. Sabinus’ men tore the roof-tiles from the temples to hurl down on the attackers’ heads and rooted up the statues to form frantic barriers at the gates. At some point during the confusion one side or the other started a fire which raged through the houses on the lower slopes, then while all Rome watched in horror the flames leapt uphill towards the Temple of Jupiter.

  The temple was the site for Rome’s most solemn religious ceremonies. Here the Senate convened their first meeting of every year. From this temple the statues of Jupiter, Juno and Minerva were carried down into the city and paraded during festivals. To this temple victorious generals brought home their trophies. It was packed with dedicated treasure. The roof was covered with tiles of gilded bronze, the doors were plated with gold, and the peristyle was hung with solemn edicts engraved on ancient bronze plaques. The temple had symbolised Rome’s destiny for hundreds of years. It had given poets their famous epithet for the Golden Capitol. It was the heart of the Empire
. The Temple of Jupiter on Capitol Hill in Rome was the centre of the civilised world. On 19 December in the Year of the Four Emperors the Temple of Jupiter burnt to the ground.

  Many Flavian supporters were killed. Domitian hid in a caretaker’s house then disguised himself as an acolyte of the priests of Isis and escaped across the Tiber. The mother of one of his schoolfriends sheltered him, luckily outwitting his pursuers when they came to her house. Sabinus surrendered. He was dragged in chains before Vitellius. Vitellius came out on to the Palace steps apparently prepared to be lenient, but the mob screamed for blood. Sabinus was stabbed to death, his head sliced off, and his body cast on to the Gemonian Steps.

  He had been placed in an impossible position, trying to negotiate with a slippery agent in an ungrateful city. Tragically, he misjudged both. The truest man in Rome, to him Rome gave a traitor’s death.

  Horrified, the army of Antonius Primus stirred. Without waiting any longer for Mucianus to join them they forged straight down the Via Flaminia. They sped the full distance to Rome in a single day. Ambassadors from Vitellius and the Senate were roughly handled, though a deputation of Vestal Virgins was received courteously enough. The remaining Vitellians had no intention of giving way. So three columns of Flavian troops invaded the city. They entered by the Via Flaminia, along the banks of the Tiber, and through the Colline Gate on the Via Salaria – only a few yards from Caenis’ house. While citizens sat out on their balconies like spectators at a triumph, cheering first one group then the other, the two forces rampaged through the streets. The Flavians won – just. Vitellius was hauled from his hiding-place in a janitor’s kennel, beaten to death, then his body too deposited upon the Gemonian Steps where Flavius Sabinus had been flung the day before. Vespasian’s senior general, Licinius Mucianus, arrived in the nick of time to prevent Primus’ men from looting the city. Rome shuddered, and was finally still.

  Domitian emerged from hiding and appeared to the victorious Flavian troops; they hailed him Caesar; they carried him in triumph to his father’s house. On the whole Caenis felt glad she was no longer there when the exultant youth arrived.

  Flavius Sabinus was awarded a state funeral.

  Caenis wrote to Vespasian about his brother. She warned him of the shock which the destruction of the temple had caused in Rome. She reassured him that his younger son was safe. It was 30 December – Titus’ birthday; she sent Titus her love. She gave them both her honest good wishes for the Flavian dynasty.

  Then, with immense care, Caenis wrote to Vespasian alone.

  I have believed since the day I met you that you possessed a great destiny. I cannot wish you – or Rome – any less. I have come with you as far as I may. You must realise I shall never in the future cause you to regret the respect and devotion you showed me in the past. We are, as you once observed, strong-minded enough to follow the rules. You know my heart; you always knew. Together or separate, my love for you will never change.

  Perhaps you were right when you said once that we should not have given love to one another, but oh dearest of men, I am so glad that we did!

  Even now, Caenis never felt entirely easy writing letters for herself. Still the regular whisper of her pen across the papyrus carried the resonance of a long-mastered craft, so she worked on to the end with the discipline of which she had always been so proud. In the way of a neat secretary she cleaned the spare ink from the split nib before she laid down her pen.

  Twelve hundred miles away in Alexandria the newest Emperor of Rome was entertaining the ambassadors of King Vologaeses of the Parthians. For half a century the Parthians had been Rome’s most dedicated enemies. Now the Parthians and this strong new Emperor were at peace. King Vologaeses had offered Vespasian forty thousand Parthian archers – an offer which he was gracefully able to refuse. In Alexandria it was a good moment. They held a lively Egyptian feast to celebrate.

  Nobody noticed when amongst all the racket the Emperor paused in sudden deep stillness, as if he had heard somebody calling him.

  XL

  Vespasian released the cornships ahead of him in February next year, as soon as they could sail. He himself waited in Alexandria until the better weather was assured. Embassies of senators and knights frightened themselves and were seasick dashing across the Mediterranean under dark skies to court his goodwill. He received them gravely. They were impressed. They were particularly impressed to find him entertaining the fearful Parthians.

  Titus returned to Judaea in April. He was Titus Caesar now. The freedman Narcissus had, after all, cultivated his dynasty. Sometimes Caenis wondered whether Narcissus had realised all along: so like the old schemer to have a second plan ready in case the first one failed.

  Vespasian had shown Titus the letter from Caenis. He knew how his son would react. He explained to Titus briefly certain social facts of life. Titus said nothing. Neither of them wrote to her. Titus could not bear to. As for his father, he growled that taming an ox by telepathy was easy; women were best handled where you had space to get a rope around their horns.

  Titus retorted grimly, ‘Well – you’re the country boy!’

  There was unrest in Africa, which had no time for Vespasian; Africa was still in a sense bombarding him with turnips. There was an outbreak of piracy on the Black Sea which one of his lieutenants sailed to put down. There was civil war in north Britain. There was an extremely serious revolt in Germany, cleared up with good luck and some dash by Vespasian’s relative Petilius Cerialis. Though they passed like a dream for Caenis, these were major events which occupied much of Vespasian’s attention.

  Domitian, whom she never saw nowadays, had acted as his father’s representative in Rome. He made a commendable speech to the Senate, though then found himself struggling to take precedence over Mucianus who actually held the formal powers of deputy. At first Domitian conducted himself with distinction, though he overstepped the mark during the German revolt when he tried to coerce Cerialis into a conspiracy – whether against his father or his brother was typically unclear. Cerialis ignored it. Domitian was downgraded. He made himself a patron of the arts instead, a much more suitable way for an Emperor’s younger son to waste his time. Vespasian was furious with his political manoeuvres, though Titus – more loyal to his brother than Domitian would ever be in return – interceded on his behalf with his usual diplomacy. Mollified, Vespasian embarked for home.

  By then the Senate had awarded him in a pack all of the honours and titles which previous Emperors had assembled one by one. At this point Vespasian did not request and was not awarded a Triumph; there was an ancient rule that such honours were reserved for conquest over external enemies, not for shedding Roman blood. There would be one. There would be a Triumph for Jerusalem; that was understood. It would be awarded to Vespasian and Titus together – Titus who had worked so hard and with such grace to bring his father to the throne, and who would share the burdens of office with him from the start.

  So Vespasian was coming.

  Waiting for him to arrive, Rome could hardly bear the suspense. In the end crowds flocked out, some journeying many miles to meet him as he travelled up from the south. Behind them, the city lay strangely quiet. Every town on the way erupted when he arrived. In the country whole families lined his route to applaud. Even before they saw him they knew a chapter had closed. Once he appeared, they were surprised to find how good-natured the man was. People supposed becoming Emperor had changed him for the better. Caenis had always told him: people had no sense.

  When Vespasian entered Rome the entire city was smothered under garlands and shimmering with incense. Caenis let all her household go to watch him arrive. She stayed at home. There was no longer Veronica to hire a balcony. Besides, any woman in the crowd who hurled her lunch at the Emperor would be strung up on a scaffold by the Praetorian Guard. Aglaus, loyal to the last, kept Caenis company. They could hear the noise in the distance throughout most of the day. Being near the Praetorian Camp made it worse. There was tremendous activity.

>   She knew Aglaus was frightened of what she would do. Caenis merely spring-cleaned her house.

  Towards the end of the afternoon the inevitable equerry turned up. Vespasian had always been considerate. Caenis had understood there would have to be one brief skirmish: the kind gesture of recognition on his part; the formal resignation on hers.

  The equerry, poor dog, was the man who had once in Greece advised the disgraced Vespasian to go to Hades. Aglaus enjoyed himself for some time over that; she could hear it going on through a half-open door.

  ‘Must have been a sticky moment when he turned up in his nice new purple toga! What did he say to you?’

  ‘I asked him what he wanted me to do; he said, “Oh go to Hades!” – and he grinned.’

  ‘Neat! You’ll learn to enjoy that grin. But you’re working for him?’

  ‘So far. Today he is refusing to settle new arrangements. Caused a bit of an upset, you can imagine. All those Greek eels with their neat lists hoping to wind their way into his good opinion; every one of them has been put off. They were jumpy anyway about letting Domitian take over the Palace – there’s a strong indication already that papa has torn a strip off his young lordship . . . Only thing Vespasian has done is cancel the procedure for searching visitors; quite a few Praetorian palpitations at that! He says he wants to consult someone about the rest.’ Aglaus laughed bitterly, knowing whom Vespasian used to consult on domestic matters. The equerry became more businesslike. ‘Right. This won’t do – better lead me to Antonia Caenis.’

  ‘Just Caenis.’

  The repartee over, Aglaus was at his most unhelpful now. Caenis smiled over the change in his tone as he erected his fences. No one would get past him.

  ‘He wants her,’ prompted the equerry.

  ‘I shall tell her.’

  ‘I must see her.’

  ‘She won’t see you. Listen; we expected this. You are to say: “Antonia’s freedwoman thanks the Emperor for remembering her, but she is not free to come.”’