Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants Page 3

  Unfortunately for all involved, the plot had grown so large it proved impossible to remain a secret. When a freedman named Milichus inadvertently got word of the plan to assassinate Nero, he betrayed the conspirators to Tigellinus. One of the women, a former slave named Epicharis, was quickly captured and tortured by the praetorian’s interrogators. Though she refused to give any names, even after all of her limbs were broken on the rack, the fact that she managed to hang herself the next day was taken as a sign of guilt.

  Among the conspirators who immediately confessed and begged for mercy, was the empress’ first husband, Rufrius Crispinus. Nero ordered him banished and a year later would have him executed. A member of the equites named Antonius Natalis struck a deal with the emperor. He would name every conspirator in return for an acquittal.

  The emperor’s paranoia grew as the list of traitors became ever larger. By the time Tigellinus presented him with all of the names, his nerves were deeply frayed.

  “Why do they hate me so?” the emperor asked, while continuously rubbing his reddened eyes. “All I wanted was to follow the will of the gods, to become a god and give the people the divine vision of beauty. Why do they hate me?”

  “Perhaps it is envy, sire,” Tigellinus said with a shrug. He then asked, “Does it really matter?”

  “Faenius Rufus, one of my own guard commanders,” Nero said, with a sigh of resignation that quickly turned to anger. He continued to read, “Sulpicius Asper, Cornelius Martialis, Flavius Nepos, Subrius Flavius...” His voice trailed off as he read the next name on the list. Anger returned to sorrow once more as he looked up at his praetorian prefect.

  “No,” Nero said, shaking his head. “Not Seneca! He has been my mentor since I was a boy. He became the father I lost when the divine Claudius ascended to the gods. He was my friend, I loved him.” Unable to control his tears, they now streamed down the emperor’s face.

  “I am truly sorry, Caesar,” Tigellinus replied.

  In the coming days, every conspirator was arrested and tried. In addition to Natalis, four were acquitted and released. Seventeen were found guilty and sent into exile, including Crispinus. The remaining were convicted and sentenced to death. That these included his beloved Seneca broke Nero’s heart.

  The elderly Seneca, who was nearly seventy years of age, neither confessed nor denied his involvement in the conspiracy, even when Nero begged him to speak up in his own defense. It was later speculated that he may not have taken a direct role in the plot, but as he knew about it and failed to act, he felt he had betrayed his young protégé, whom he loved like a son. Seneca was allowed to take his own life, which he did by cutting open his wrists while lying in his private bath. In accordance with his will, he was cremated without any of the usual funerary rites.

  And though Nero long brooded over Seneca’s betrayal, his wife, Poppaea, and remaining prefect, Tigellinus, soon brought him news that changed his temperament. Poppaea was with child, much to the emperor’s joy and the people’s relief. At last, there would be an heir to the imperial throne! However, the prefect’s news, which brought Nero equal glee, was far more sinister.

  “What is this?” the emperor asked, when the prefect brought him a pile of documents.

  “Think of it as the gods’ reward for your stalwart fortitude in the face of treachery,” Tigellinus answered. “These are the detailed inventories of the estates of all the executed Pisonian conspirators. Since they died as traitors their wills are forfeit, with fortunes and estates passing on to the state, meaning you.”

  “This is incredible,” Nero breathed. “Piso’s total wealth alone is in excess of twenty-five million denarii.”

  “Yes, he was the richest of the lot,” the prefect noted calmly. “We thought it best to spare Seneca’s family, out of sentiment for all his years of service.” While Nero gave a somber nod of consent, Tigellinus gave a wicked grin and said, “From the ashes of treason, comes Rome’s salvation.”

  “What do you mean?” Nero asked, though he was slowly starting to see what the praetorian was referencing.

  “You don’t think that Piso and his band of halfwits are your only enemies, do you?” Tigellinus stated. “The people love you, Caesar, and for that you have gained many enemies within the senate.”

  “Then we must find my enemies,” Nero said coldly. “For they are also enemies of the people and of Rome. The people are my children, and I must protect them. These conspirators must be cut out like an infectious mass. Their fortunes will be used to complete my vision of Rome’s beauty!”

  The executed traitorous praetorian prefect, Faenius Rufus, was soon replaced by a man named Nymphidius Sabinus. Possessing even less moral scruples than Tigellinus, he soon aided his colleague in the rooting out of treachery, whether real or imagined, within Rome’s ruling class. The last time such a reign of terror had been unleashed was under the praetorian prefect, Lucius Aelius Sejanus, during the rule of Tiberius. Because of this, along with Sejanus’ later betrayal of the emperor, Tiberius decreed that two prefects would command the Praetorian Guard instead of just one. The intent, that one would keep the ambitions of the other in check, had worked as intended for the last twenty-four years. And in time, Nymphidius’ ambitions would cause him to treat Tigellinus as a hated rival. But for the time being, their efforts were coordinated in cowing the senate into bloody submission while fattening their coffers, as well as Emperor Nero’s.

  Personal tragedy would soon strike the imperial house with the death of Empress Poppaea. As Nero was growing more and more prone to physical outbursts, particularly when his poetry or orations were mocked, rumor had it that he’d kicked his pregnant wife to death, after she criticized one of his performances. Equally plausible was that she had miscarried their child and bled to death. As her pregnancy with their only other child, two years prior, had been fraught with complications, and their daughter had been sickly and died after just four months, added weight to this theory. Whatever the truth, the only eyewitness, besides the emperor, was the ever loyal Tigellinus, who refused to confirm or deny any rumors he was asked about. Instead of the usual cremation, Poppaea’s body was stuffed with spices and embalmed, then placed in the Mausoleum of Augustus. Nero spoke passionately and with many tears while giving her eulogy. He declared her divine, and it was said that he burned ten years’ worth of Arabian incense at her funeral.

  His of public mourning was brief. Soon after, Nero began an affair with a woman named Statilia Messalina. Her husband, Marcus Vestinus Atticus, was among the Pisonian conspirators who had been sent into exile. With her husband’s disgrace, Statilia looked for her own survival, and so convinced Nero to marry her and make her his consort. Rather than demanding a divorce from Vestinus, Nero simply had him put to death in exile. And so, while Statilia Messalina became Empress Consort of the Roman Empire, her marriage to Nero was simply one of political survival. The two rarely shared the same bed, and as often as not, she would be excluded from public ceremonies. So while Nero remarried within a year of Poppaea’s death, he never stopped grieving for her. With her passing, the last shackle which held Nero’s frail sanity in place was broken.

  What had begun as a noble and compassionate effort to rebuild Rome, following the Great Fire, had morphed into one man’s blind obsession with wealth and beauty. Nero’s intended ‘gift’ to the people of Rome had led the empire to near financial ruin, the looting of the sacred temples, and now the deaths of numerous senators and wealthy patricians. And with neither his wife nor his mentor, Seneca, there to keep him in check, the onslaught of his unbridled ambition was unleashed. The repercussions, which many viewed as Nero’s descent into madness, would bring the entire Roman Empire to its breaking point in the coming years.

  The Roman Empire, 68 A.D.

  End of an Era

  Chapter I: The Last Saturnalia

  Rome

  23 December 67 A.D.

  ***

  “Io, Saturnalia!”

  The sun was casting the last of its r
eddish glow as it set in the west, its dying light shining through the pillars of the Temple of Jupiter. Torches and lamps lit up the streets, which were crammed with revelers and entertainers. Jugglers tossed flaming torches and musicians played, while exotic dancers brought in from all corners of the empire performed lascivious acts upon each other, much to the delight of the crowds. Actors performed atop small stages, oftentimes wearing masks and little else. The noise of the raucous crowds was such that their form of entertainment relied on the visual, far more than the spoken word. And if a theatrical performance devolved into a display of public fornication, the crowds only relished it more.

  “Io, Saturnalia!”

  Those two words, a short salutation which could literally mean anything, were shouted repeatedly in a chorus of celebration by the citizens of Rome. Saturnalia, the weeklong celebration referred to by the poet Catullus as “the best of days”, was into its final night. Though officially a holiday honoring the god, Saturn, who was associated with agriculture as well as the city itself, the festivities were more associated with Bacchus, the god of wine and the harvest. Indeed, the term ‘Io Saturnalia’ had come to be more associated with the triumph of Bacchus, and as a punctuation of both jokes and revelry, rather than the deity whose name it bore. Laws were suspended during this time, with mischief and bad behavior greeted with cheers, rather than scorn. Slaves became masters, and their masters served them. At the heart of civilization, the world was turned upside down in a strange and debauched celebration whose traditions went back hundreds of years.

  Even the most prudish of the city’s moralist citizens were willing to put aside modesty during the week of Saturnalia. As a means of at least giving a semblance of protecting ones dignity, most of the revelers wore masks, using the sense of anonymity as a means of taking part in erotic displays that would be unthinkable for decent persons any other time of the year. But then, during Saturnalia, the rules of decency were cast aside. It was the one time of year when social norms were struck down. When men and women, commoner and patrician, slave and free alike were treated almost as equals. Togas were discarded in favor of Greek tunics, which would normally be considered in poor taste. And while hats were almost never worn by citizens, during this time many donned the conical pilleus, which was a hat normally worn by freedmen. Even slaves, who would not be allowed to don the pilleus unless granted their freedom, wore these. It was a symbolic means of showing all Romans as equals. In perhaps the greatest display of the casting down of class separation, slaves dressed in exotic furs gambled and played games with members of the senate. Slaves were also granted a measure of free speech and were exempted from any punishments. Normally harsh masters who would flog any servant who dared call them an ‘insufferable twat’, would instead laugh at their own expense, while lavishing gifts upon whichever slave could insult him the best. Indeed, many of Rome’s patricians took a certain amount of pleasure in having their servants insult them during this time, unofficially called ‘December liberty’.

  Saturnalia was not all about debauchery, however, for there had been many formal ceremonies over the course of the week. The feet of the statue of Saturn were covered in wool which was later removed in another ceremony. The final night of 23 December was also a time of gift-giving, known as the Sigillaria. Children received toys. Patricians often purchasing many en mass to be handed out to the poorest children, in a show of generosity that would not be seen again in any capacity for another year. Husbands and wives also exchanged gifts, and even slaves received presents during the feasts they were allowed to share with their masters. It was, indeed, the happiest of days in the imperial city, and the one time of year where there truly was something for everyone.

  Three years had passed since the Great Fire, and with much of the city rebuilt, perhaps no one in the whole of the empire celebrated Saturnalia more than Emperor Nero. At the Domus Aurea, which was still under construction, he had entertained a vast number of guests over the course of the month. As the emperor had just celebrated his thirtieth birthday on 15 December, two days before the Saturnalia commenced, he had seen fit to make the entire month one massive festival. He had spared no expense, importing the best wines, while bringing in gladiators and wild beasts to battle in the arena.

  Not all were in a celebratory mood, and two senators in particular kept their distance from the drunkenness and debauchery. This was not out of any moral objections, but rather because such a public spectacle was the perfect place to allow them to speak with a measure anonymity. One was the current consul, Julius Rufus, whose yearlong term was set to end in a few days. The other, the venerable former general and Governor of Britannia, Suetonius Paulinus.

  “Another month-long orgy like this and there won’t be a single copper sesterce left in the imperial coffers,” Rufus observed as the men watched Nero, his face painted red, in a drunken dance with a bevy of semi-naked Numidian dancers.

  “Not that our beloved emperor ever wishes to hear of anything as boring as finances,” Paulinus added with a trace of disdain in his voice. “He plundered the temples, which many of the people in the provinces have yet to forgive, stole the estates from supposed traitors, and still his vision of rebuilding a grandiose new Rome has yet to be fulfilled.”

  “I cannot tell you how many times I’ve had to listen to him scream about how he doesn’t want to hear there is no money,” Rufus added. He shook his head in disgust. “His attack dogs, Tigellinus and Nymphidius, have the entire senate cowering in terror, lest they be next to be brought up on false charges of treason. And how convenient, whenever there is a shortage in the treasury, some wealthy senator’s name comes up as having betrayed the emperor and people of Rome. I’ll tell you this, I am glad my term as consul ends in another week. Let Nero’s puppet, Italicus, dare tell him the empire is risking bankruptcy.”

  “Funny thing, that the only reason he even gained the consulship for next year was to appease Nero,” Paulinus observed.

  The man they referred to, Tiberius Silius Italicus, was a member of Nero’s inner circle. Though not a murderous despot like the two praetorian prefects, he was still firmly within the emperor’s entourage and held great influence over him. This was, in part, due to Nero’s admiration for him as a poet. Indeed, Italicus had once written a seventeen volume epic poem on the Second Punic War, which many agreed was one of the greatest modern pieces of literature and prose. And on this night, he sat at the emperor’s head table.

  At the back of the large hall, Emperor Nero had collapsed on a couch in a state of intoxication from both wine and various opiates. And while nubile dancers surrounded him, he found himself continuously distracted by events transpiring behind him. He forcibly shoved the dancers off and rolled onto his stomach, eyes fixed on the back of the hall. At first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than a score of servants going to and coming from the kitchens and wine cellars. However, a young man, who stood against the wall bearing a tray of goblets, suddenly had him enraptured.

  “Poppaea,” Nero whispered, his eyes growing wide. He peered over his shoulder at Italicus, a grin spreading across his face.

  “Caesar?” Senator Italicus asked, lounging on the couch nearest the emperor.

  “Can’t you see?” Nero persisted, shoving off a practically naked Greek woman. He pointed frantically towards the young man. “Just look at that face, it’s Poppaea. My love has returned to me!”

  “That would be Sporus, the son of one of your freedmen,” Italicus gently corrected. He could see the gleam of lust growing behind the emperor’s eyes, and it unnerved him.

  Nero fell backwards off his couch and quickly leapt to his feet, his gaze ever fixed on the young man. “Tigellinus!” he shouted, summoning his praetorian prefect.

  The guards’ commander was among Nero’s distinguished guests, who lounged on the other couch next to the emperor. Many viewed this as a slight against Nero’s current wife, Empress Statilia Messalina, yet she herself did her best to remain inconspicuous. Anything that
kept Nero distracted was a welcome reprieve to her.

  As the emperor walked slowly towards the object of his fascination, Tigellinus quickly joined him. Even when he was an honored guest at one of Nero’s numerous banquets, the prefect always maintained a certain level of sobriety, in case his services were needed. He snapped his fingers and pointed to four of his men, who quietly lined the walls of the hall. They walked over to their commander inconspicuously, lest they alarm the emperor’s guests. Italicus also joined the men, hoping to avoid any potential unpleasantness, for he recognized that unhinged look in Nero’s eye.

  The music had grown louder and faster, a dozen acrobats joining the bevy of dancers. The hundred or so guests and nearly twice as many servants were, therefore, oblivious to the emperor’s sudden departure from his couch. Only Empress Statilia was aware of what was transpiring, and her gaze was fixed upon her husband, as she calmly ate from a plate of figs.

  The young man known as Sporus was suddenly aware he was the subject of the emperor’s attention, and his gaze immediately fell to the floor. Eighteen years of age, he had been granted his freedom along with his father, when he was a young boy. He had spent the last six years working as an aid to the overseer of one of the imperial vineyards outside of Aricia, a few miles southeast of Rome. He had been dispatched to the capital, along with a score of other freedmen and slaves, to assist in the emperor’s Saturnalia celebrations. The young man had seen this as a great honor, especially since it had been Nero who’d granted both he and his father their freedom. And yet, as the emperor walked towards him, eyes wide and tongue licking his lips in lust, he appeared to be a completely different person than Sporus remembered from his youth, the streaked red face paint notwithstanding. Suddenly he was afraid.