Soldier of Rome- Reign of the Tyrants Page 4

  “Such beauty,” Nero said, placing his hand under the young man’s chin. This startled Sporus, and he felt himself trembling as he stared into the emperor’s eyes. “Do not fear me, my love, for I am gladdened by your return.”

  “I...I am honored that you remember me, Caesar,” Sporus stammered, trying to mask his growing terror. “I have not seen you since I was a boy.”

  “Dear Poppaea,” Nero sighed, taking a step back and assessing the young man. Even Tigellinus and Italicus could see where the unfortunate lad bore some resemblance to the emperor’s dead wife. Nero then shook his head. “Do the gods mock me so, that they would return you to me as a boy?”

  “Caesar,” the praetorian said, “that is not your wife, but a mere freedman servant. Your wife is with your guests in the main hall.”

  “No,” Nero replied, shaking his head, his eyes never leaving Sporus. “That vile creature who dares to call herself my consort is nothing more than a harlot who crawled into my bed as soon as her disgrace of a husband was sent into exile. My true love, the empress of my heart, stands now before me. But what to do about the unfortunate affliction the gods have bestowed upon my dear Poppaea?”

  Sporus was now shaking to the point that the empty cups on his tray were rattling. Italicus was ashen-faced, yet said nothing. Tigellinus gritted his teeth, knowing he would likely be ordered to do something distasteful. Given that he had personally overseen the deaths of Nero’s many enemies, both real and imagined, it mattered little to the prefect what the emperor would have him do to this young freedman.

  “Tigellinus,” Nero said, running the back of his fingers gently over the side of Sporus’ face, streaked with tears of abject fear.

  “Caesar?”

  “We must correct the gods’ most grievous error,” he replied. “Take this ‘man’ and make him into a woman.”

  “No!” Sporus’ scream was mostly drowned out by the loud music.

  Empress Statilia managed to hear it, her attention fixed upon what the other guests could not see. She had just bit into a fig, and paused as she watched a pair of guardsmen grab the unfortunate lad by each arm, the tray of goblets clattering to the floor.

  Italicus quickly walked back to his couch where he immediately gulped down an entire goblet of wine and demanded more. The empress stood from her couch and walked over to the senator, his face sweaty and eyes staring blankly.

  “Italicus,” Statilia said, maintaining a sense of calm.

  The senator was startled and quickly looked up at the empress. “Your highness,” he said. “My apologies, I did not see you there.”

  “What has that boy done to offend my husband?” the empress asked. She was still watching the back of the hall, where behind the pillars she could see Nero staring serenely towards the doorway to one of the back rooms. As if to accentuate her question, a shrieking scream echoed over the noise of the musicians.

  “Nothing,” the senator replied, “except being cursed with an uncanny resemblance to the emperor’s dead wife.”

  “I see,” Statilia said, standing upright as an even louder shriek came from the back room. Her mouth twitched, though she showed no other emotion. “Tragic for him, though fortunate for me, for I shall no longer be the subject of Nero’s...affections. Let’s see him try and put an heir into that belly.”

  The music suddenly ceased as further sobs and cries echoed throughout the palace. Most of the guests, and in particular the slaves, appeared both shocked and horrified, not knowing what abominations were taking place in one of the back rooms. Only Nero was smiling as he rejoined the party.

  “Why do you stop?” he asked, giving a short laugh. “My friends, this is Saturnalia, the best of days!” He then raised an overflowing cup as the shrieks in the back turned to whimpering sobs. Understanding the source of his guests’ distress, the emperor forcibly shouted, “Musicians, play on!”

  From their couches, Consul Rufus and Senator Paulinus scowled as they tried to comprehend what torments Nero had subjected the poor young freedman to.

  “That man,” Paulinus said, glowering at Nero, “is no longer the emperor I once served.”

  Five years have passed since I first came to Rome. While most of my friends have long since married and had children, Father had other plans for me. He said I was not some political pawn, and that my life was my own. While he and Mother love Britannia, they felt I needed to see Rome for myself, and that if I was to find what was best in life, I foremost needed to be educated.

  The Flavians have been wonderful hosts and have treated me like one of their own. Flavius and Clemens have become like brothers to me. Though their cousin, Domitian, has always been rather awkward to say the least. I think he means well, but feels he is living in the shadow of his father and brother. A pity.

  While the entire city is alive, I confess I feel much safer within the walls of the Flavian manor. Both the family, as well as the household servants, look forward to tonight’s feast, when either the King or Queen of Saturnalia will be crowned.

  “Come, my lady, they are waiting for you.”

  The words of a freedwoman caused Aula to look up from her writings. She had been keeping a journal of sorts since her arrival in Rome, under the pretense that she would eventually send it to her father, an imperial magistrate in Britannia, who had not returned to the imperial capital since before Aula was born.

  “Thank you, Antonia,” Aula said, with a warm smile. “Tell Sabinus I’ll be right down.”

  The home of Senator Titus Flavius Sabinus, like that of most households within Rome, was alive with festivities. And in keeping with tradition, Sabinus, along with his sons, was relegated to serving his guests, while slaves and freedmen lounged upon the plush couches, demanding more wine and delicacies. His wife had died several years before, and was conspicuous by her absence.

  A former consul and renowned general, Sabinus was one of Rome’s most respected statesmen. His position as city prefect, which was essentially governor of Rome herself, made him one of the most powerful and influential persons within the city. Fortunately for him, this was also tempered greatly by his family’s humble origins and only modest wealth. In fact, the Flavians, while certainly far richer than any within the plebeians or equites, scarcely had enough in their coffers to cover the minimum amount of personal fortune necessary to maintain membership with Rome’s senatorial class. As such, he was in the enviable position to where he could effectively govern, without being viewed by the emperor as a potential rival or threat. He was also privately spurned by many of the senate’s older families, and his lack of presence was neither missed nor even noticed at the emperor’s feast.

  A total of twenty guests, mostly non-senatorial patricians and equites, were crammed into Sabinus’ dining hall. Most were already in various states of intoxication and taking turns in serving both the slaves, as well as each other. Fifteen prostitutes of the highest quality and expense had been procured. Guests of both sexes, less-than-discretely, made their way to and from the rooms designated for the courtesans use.

  In addition to his sons, Sabinus’ youngest nephew was in attendance. Sabinus’ brother, Vespasian, was embroiled in putting down what had been a surprisingly stalwart rebellion in Judea, over the past year. Vespasian’s eldest son, Titus, commanded one of his legions. And while they were away, fighting in the east, Vespasian’s youngest son, fifteen year old Domitian, had been placed under Sabinus’ charge. Domitian loved his brother and practically worshipped his father, yet he was bitter in that he was so much younger than Titus, and unable to take part in the campaigns with them. The sullen young man therefore often kept to himself, and was only present at the feast because his uncle had compelled him to come.

  “My friends!” Sabinus shouted, standing on top of one of the tables. His best toga with its distinctive purple and gold trim was splattered with wine. His face was red, and he was grinning broadly as his friends and servants gave a voracious cheer of ‘Io, Saturnalia’ for their host. In his hands, he
held aloft a large crown made of olive branches. “It is time to crown what will either be our King or Queen of Saturnalia!”

  This elicited further cheers, as well as the sloshing of wine vessels. Sabinus picked up a small bag which rattled with wooden strips, each bore a person’s name.

  “I have here, within this humble sack, the names of every member of this household; noble and common, slave and free alike. And by Saturn, Bacchus, and all of the gods who smile upon this happy occasion, shall our monarch for this night be chosen.” He then nodded to the young woman who sat with his sons and nephew. “Lady Vale, as our honored guest these past five years, you shall be the hand of the gods this night!”

  Another cheer was exclaimed as Sabinus’ sons, Flavius and Clemens, helped their friend to her feet. Her full name was Aula Cursia Vale, and she was the daughter of a renowned former cavalry officer, who Sabinus had served with in Britannia. She was taller than most women, her long, curled hair pulled back this evening, with a crown of laurels upon her head.

  Aula stepped onto the table and placed her hand in the bag. She deliberately fumbled through the tags, taking her time and building the anticipation of the guests with ever a mischievous smile adorning her pretty face. An impatient silence fell upon the room as she pulled one of the wooden strips from the bag. Those closest tried to peer up and see it.

  Aula’s grin broadened as she read the name, holding the tag up high. “We have a Queen of Saturnalia, and her name is...Antonia Caenis!”

  Numerous revelers, at least those closest to the astonished woman, broke into a randy song while hoisting her onto their shoulders. A freedwoman, who had many years before served as clerk to Antonia Minor, the mother of Emperor Claudius, Antonia Caenis had since been in the service of the Flavians. She had been a mistress of Vespasian, prior to his marriage to Flavia Domitilla. The two resumed their relations after Flavia’s death a few years back, much to the approval of Titus, though to the chagrin of Domitian. At fifty-two years of age, Antonia still possessed a large measure of the handsome and dignified beauty left over from her youth.

  As she was carried around the room, Antonia leaned over and allowed Sabinus to place the olive crown upon her head. She then embraced and kissed Aula upon the cheek, before the singing mass carried her out into the large gardens, which were lit with numerous torches and lamps.

  All of Sabinus’ guests soon followed, Aula stepping down from the table and walking arm-in-arm with Sabinus’ sons. Sabinus himself took in a deep breath and surveyed the complete mess that had been made of his hall. He simply laughed. As he made ready to follow the crowd, he noticed that one person had not left the hall. Still sitting on his couch, nursing a cup of wine while appearing to be sulking, was his nephew.

  “The Queen of Saturnalia has been crowned, Domitian,” Sabinus said, maintaining his good humor. “We should go attend her ‘court’ in the gardens at once.”

  “That woman is nothing more than my father’s live-in whore,” Domitian said. “He should have carted her off to Judea with him, instead of letting her cast a stain upon the family here in Rome.”

  Sabinus sighed as he stepped down from the table and over to his nephew. It was no secret that Domitian held no fond feelings for his father’s mistress, though this was reckoned to be out of the fierce loyalty he had for the memory of his mother.

  “It has been five years since your mother crossed over to the Fields of Asphodel,” he said, in reference to the place where most souls went after death. “I will tell you this, Antonia was your father’s first love, long before he ever met your mother. But as she was a freedwoman, they knew that theirs was a love that could never be. And if you must know, like you, I did not approve of Vespasian keeping such a mistress. When the time came for him to wed Flavia Domitilla, he did what was expected of him, put Antonia aside, and married your mother.”

  “She is a former slave,” Domitian protested. “Such women are fine for fucking, or other meaningless work, but not for being welcomed into the household as if they are our equals.”

  “Antonia is a kind, thoughtful, and extremely intelligent woman,” Sabinus replied, maintaining a surprising level of calm. Perhaps it was because he once thought the same as his nephew and was empathetic to his feelings. “I think your father loves her more for her mind than anything else. And need I remind you that our own family came from very humble origins?”

  “Yes, but not slaves.”

  “True,” his uncle conceded. Sabinus then began to remind his nephew about how his great-grandfather had been a centurion under Pompey Magnus, and was among the majority of Pompey’s army who received full pardon from Julius Caesar after the civil war. His rank and acquired wealth had allowed the family to move up into the equites.

  In the years that followed, Sabinus and Vespasian’s father, Sabinus the Elder, had served as a customs official in Asia Minor. In Ephesus, a statue was dedicated to the elder Sabinus, calling him ‘The Honest Tax-Gatherer’. Despite being known for his honesty, and for never attempting to ‘shake down’ the provincials, Sabinus the Elder still managed to accumulate enough wealth to essentially purchase his family’s membership into the patrician class. He had also managed to secure both his sons postings as laticlavian tribunes within the legions at a young age, despite their father only being a first-generation senator.

  The Flavian brothers were natural soldiers. Sadly, their father did not live to see them achieve their greatest victories. Sabinus had commanded Legio IX, Hispania, during the Invasion of Britannia, while Vespasian was legate of Legio II, Augusta. Both held the distinction of never suffering a defeat in battle and, in fact, had been given Triumphal Ornaments by Emperor Claudius, following their victorious return to Rome. Vespasian was especially well-known for his aggressive, yet pragmatic, style and achieved great distinction for his ability to break enemy strongholds.

  “Of course, that was more than twenty years ago,” Sabinus reminisced.

  “Twenty-four, uncle,” Domitian corrected. “And it was nine years before I was even born.”

  “Thank you, nephew, for making me feel like an old man,” Sabinus laughed, giving the lad a friendly pat on the shoulder. He stood. “I must return to our guests. If you choose not to accept Antonia Caenis that is your right. You are, after all, almost a man and can make your own decisions. I cannot help but wonder if perhaps this resentment you feel is, in some way, a product of jealousy towards your father, and by extension your brother.”

  Sabinus expected no response. Instead, he hoped his nephew would simply reflect upon his words. Over the last twenty years, Sabinus’ relationship with his brother had become terribly strained, with Vespasian proving to be a political liability on multiple occasions. Despite this, Sabinus would never speak ill of him in public, and especially not to his children. For all Domitian knew, his father and uncle were still as close as they were when they first led their legions into Britannia.

  Domitian admitted quietly to himself that he did harbor at least some measure of envy towards his father and elder brother. Because he was so much younger than his brother, it felt as if their father had had little time for him growing up. Titus had been groomed since he was a boy to be both a statesman and a soldier. He was scarcely any older than Domitian was now, when he was sent off to the legions for his first tour of duty as a laticlavian tribune. And despite the embarrassment, not to mention very real danger, that arose from his wife’s family being implicated in the Piso conspiracy, Titus had walked away unscathed. He’d simply divorced his wife and taken their young daughter with him, with no political repercussions. In fact, he had since been given command of the Fifteenth Apollonius Legion, all by the time he was twenty-six.

  As he watched his uncle depart for the gardens, the sounds of music and laughing echoed into the now vacant dining hall. Domitian gave a melancholy sigh, poured himself another cup of wine, and brooded for a few minutes longer before deciding to make the best of things and join the celebrations. What no one knew was that these
‘best of days’ would mark the end of an era for Rome.

  Chapter II: A Whisper of Treason

  Vienne, Gaul

  27 December 67 A.D.

  ***

  The seemingly endless torrent of rain was deafening, as it beat down on the tiled roof of the mayor’s house in the city of Vienne, Gaul. A section of four auxilia infantrymen guarded the main entrance, huddled beneath their cloaks, as the incessant rain echoed off their helmets.

  Located just twenty miles south of the capital of Lugdunum, along the River Rhodanus, it had once been home of a Gallic people known as the Allobroges, before becoming a Roman colony during the conquest of Julius Caesar. Tribal infighting later led to many people being expelled from Vienne. Ironically, it was they who founded the city of Lugdunum. Even a hundred and fourteen years later, there was still little love lost between the residents of the nearby cities.

  The province of Gallia Lugdunensis was the largest of the three created, following Julius Caesar’s conquest of the region more than a century before. Beginning at the base of the Alpes Mountains and stretching northwest all the way to the sea, it dissected the remaining two provinces in Gaul and incorporated many Gallic and Germanic peoples. Rather than completely supplanting the local tribal chiefs with ‘foreign’ Roman magistrates, Caesar was wise enough to incorporate them into the provincial government. This allowed the common people to feel a sense of normalcy, even as Roman towns gradually replaced their more humble villages. As the promise of wealth and prestige was great, these Gallic leaders were more willing to allow themselves to become ‘Romanized’. The cutting of their hair, shaving of their beards and mustaches, and dressing in Roman garb was a small price to pay for the power and infrastructure Caesar brought to the province. And given that those who had defied such change had met a grisly end, such as Caesar’s nemesis, Vercingetorix, the Gallic nobles had little choice in the matter.