The Four Emperors Read online

  Colossus

  The Four Emperors

  David Blixt

  Copyright (C) 2013 David Blixt

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2018 by Creativia

  Published 2018 by Creativia

  Cover art by Cover Mint

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  WWW.DAVIDBLIXT.COM

  Table of Contents

  Dramatis Personae

  Author's Note

  Prologue

  Part One The God of War I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  Part Two The God of the Vines VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  Part Three The God of Broken Dreams XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  Part Four The God of Chaos XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  Part Five The Great God XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Appendix

  More David Blixt Novels

  For Doug Sills

  POSSUNT, QUIA POSSE VIDENTUR

  “They can, because they think they can.”

  Virgil

  The Aeneid

  Book V

  Dramatis Personae

  NERO – NERO CLAUDIUS CAESAR DRUSUS AUGUSTUS GERMANICUS, born LUCIUS DOMITIUS AHENOBARBUS, Imperator of Rome's legions, Pontifex Maximus, Princeps Senatus (leader of the Senate)

  POPPAEA – POPPAEA SABINA, divorced from Otho, wife to Nero, d. 65 AD

  STATILIA – STATILIA MESSALINA, married to Nero 66 AD

  GENS FLAVIA (FLAVIUS FAMILY)

  OLD SABINUS – TITUS FLAVIUS SABINUS SENIOR, Senator

  VESPASIAN – TITUS FLAVIUS VESPASIANUS SENIOR, his brother, Senator, general of the war in Judea

  SABINUS – TITUS FLAVIUS SABINUS JUNIOR, son of Old Sabinus, Senator

  TERTIUS – TITUS FLAVIUS SABINUS TERTIUS, elder son of Sabinus

  CLEMENS – TITUS FLAVIUS CLEMENS, younger son of Sabinus

  TITUS – TITUS FLAVIUS VESPASIANUS JUNIOR, elder son of Vespasian, Senator

  DOMITIAN – TITUS FLAVIUS DOMITIANUS, younger son of Vespasian

  CERIALIS – QUINTUS PETILLIUS CERIALIS CAESIUS RUFUS, Senator, Vespasian's son-in-law

  GAUDENTIUS – QUINTUS FLAVIUS GAUDENTIUS, distant relative, an architect

  FLAVIA – FLAVIA DOMITILLA, daughter of Cerialis, Vespasian's grand-daughter

  JULIA TITI – JULIA FLAVIA, daughter of Titus

  CAENIS – ANTONIA CAENIS, former slave, mistress of Vespasian

  PHYLLIS – former nurse of Domitian, now nurse to Julia & Flavia

  NOTABLE ROMAN CITIZENS

  CORBULO – GNAEUS DOMITIUS CORBULO, Senator, famed general, now in disgrace

  PLAUTIUS – LUCIUS AELIUS PLAUTIUS LAMIA AELIANUS, Senator, married to Corbulo's younger daughter

  DOMITIA CORBULA – Corbulo's elder daughter, now widowed

  DOMITIA LONGINA – Corbulo's younger daughter, wife of Plautius

  VERULANA GRATILLA – friend to Corbulo's daughters, wife of Quintus Junius Arulenus Rusticus

  GALBA – SERVIUS SULPICIUS GALBA, Senator, Governor of Nearer Hispania, aging general

  OTHO – MARCUS SALVIUS OTHO, Senator, Governor of Further Hispania, Nero's former friend

  VITELLIUS – AULUS VITELLIUS, Senator, pleasure-loving would-be general

  SEXTILLA – widow of Lucius Vitellius, mother of Aulus and Lucius Vitellius

  TIGELLINUS – OFONIUS TIGELLINUS, Knight, Praetorian Prefect, breeder of racehorses

  NYMPHIDIUS – GAIUS NYMPHIDIUS SABINUS, Knight, Praetorian Prefect

  MUCIANUS – GAIUS LICINIUS MUCIANUS, Senator, governor of Syria in late 67 AD

  MAMERCUS – MAMERCUS CORNELIUS MARTIALUS, retired centurion, leader of Rome's Urban guard

  CAECINA – AULUS CAECINA ALIENUS, Senator, legionary legate in Hispania and Germania

  VALENS – FABIUS VALENS, Senator, legionary legate in Germania

  PAULINUS – GAIUS SUETONIUS PAULINUS, Senator, general who defeated Boudica

  ANTONIUS – MARCUS ANTONIUS PRIMUS, exiled Senator recalled by Galba

  SLAVES & NON-CITIZENS

  SYMEON – SYMEON BEN JONAH, condemned leader of an outlawed Hebrew sect

  SAUL – SAUL OF TARSUS, Roman citizen, Symeon's rival, also condemned by Nero

  ABIGAIL – Judean born Hebrew, Symeon's consort, now a slave

  PEREL – PETRONELLA – Symeon and Abigail's daughter, now a slave

  SETH – SETH BEN TABI, Symeon's friend, now a slave

  MARCUS – MARCUS COMINIUS, Italian-born convert to a Hebrew sect, a scribe

  LINUS – MARCELLINUS JUVENTIUS HERCULANUS, Roman-born convert to a Hebrew sect

  SPIROS – Greek shepherd boy

  JOSEPHUS – YOSEF BEN MATITYAHU, captured Judean general-priest-historian

  AN APPENDIX AT THE BACK OF THIS NOVEL LISTS THE ORDERING OF THE ROMAN LEGIONS AND THEIR LOCATIONS DURING THIS PERIOD.

  Author's Note

  Colossus: a person or thing of enormous size, importance, or ability.

  This is a colossal story. It arrived like Athena from the brow of Zeus, one massive tale, complete from start to finish. A tale so large, in fact, it proved impossible to fit all into one novel. With that in mind, I just wrote and wrote, then came up for air and looked around to see where I was, what I had.

  What I had was enormous, and I was nowhere near finished. So I took that sprawling first novel and broke it into three parts. The first, COLOSSUS: STONE & STEEL, was a more intimate tale, following the Hebrew brothers Judah and Asher through the end of the siege of Jotapata.

  Yet there was a separate part of the same story, the story of a mother and daughter, and also of a father and son, that happened even as the twins were facing their trials.

  These two tales occur concurrently, interweaving at places. Like Castor and Pollux, COLOSSUS: THE FOUR EMPERORS is S&S's twin brother, born just seconds later.

  After this, worlds converge and stay intertwined all the way to the end. For that is the way of clashing cultures – once they come together, there is no way to extricate one from the other. They influence each other, leaving neither pure, hopefully strengthening and improving both.

  But as with all creation, there must first be destruction. And as with all destruction, while outside forces may be blamed, the true enemy always lies within…

  “HE WILL LIVE ILL WHO DOES NOT KNOW HOW TO DIE WELL.”

  - SENECA

  Prologue

  ROMA, ITALIA

  13 OCTOBER 64 AD

  Made of Cyclopean stones, the Tullianum was a prison without bars. There was nothing whatsoever to prevent a prisoner from walking out into the open air.

  Yet Symeon did not escape. It was a perverse honour to be held in such a place, where for centuries Romans had executed kings, generals, and noble traitors. A mark of respect.

  As the breaking dawn illuminated the cell, Symeon began to pace, repeating and polishing newly-memorized phrases until the language was clear in his mind. His friends had often pleaded with him to set t
he words down, but he had always deferred. “There will be time,” he'd assured them.

  But there was no more time. Fifty-nine years old on the day of his death, and still learning only through mistakes. The story of his life. Always he had to stumble in order to see the path.

  One of his guards entered. “Guest to see you.” By law, Symeon was allowed no light after dark, nor writing instruments. But out of kindness his guards allowed him one visitor. Not his love, nor his child. No, it was a man Symeon had spent much of his life cursing. A fellow Jew called Saul.

  Symeon and Saul were a study in opposites. Tall but stooped, Symeon was bald on top with a long white beard, whereas Saul's thinning hair was clipped close, his greying beard nearly squared. Symeon exuded calm, perpetually smiling in the face of sadness. Short, Saul suffered all a short man's failings—temper, arrogance, envy, bombast. And Symeon had never understood the other man's disdain for women.

  Yet a man in prison does not sneer at company. “Good morrow, my friend.”

  Saul had no time for pleasantries. “I am to be executed! Can you believe it? I am to die today! You as well,” he added in after-thought.

  “Ah.” Having expected it for weeks, Symeon took the news philosophically. “Did they say how?”

  “As a citizen, I shall lose only my head. You…” Momentarily, Saul focused on someone other than himself. “I am very sorry to say, old friend, that you will be given the death of a slave.”

  Symeon closed his eyes. Had it come to this? The rest of his flock sold into slavery, including his other half and their darling child. Far from what he had imagined when he'd set sail from Judea. Once again he'd failed to protect his family. And now Symeon faced the unthinkable: crucifixion.

  I must brave it as a man with not only an example to set, but one to follow.

  Turning his mind from his own fate, he said, “But why are you to die? They can't be charging you with the fire. You were already in custody.”

  “I'm to die for my Judean crimes.” Saul's bitterness was acid enough to taste in the air. “It is a pretext. The crowds are becoming increasingly violent and Caesar needs someone to blame for the fire. Who better than we troublesome Hebrews?”

  Symeon had no time for railing. Lowering his voice he asked, “Marcus is here?”

  “Yes.” Saul sniffed. “You know I disapprove. Judaism is for the Jews.”

  “That was not His message.” Symeon called to his guards. “Gentlemen, Caesar has spoken. I must die today. If you wish to hear the end to my tale, I must speak quickly.”

  Entering, the two Romans sat on either side of the door, their wooden staves across their laps. Saul sat in his accustomed place, closing his eyes to behold the story as he dreamed it should be.

  Framed in the light from the doorway, Symeon remained standing to recite his story, careful to get each word right:

  And the soldiers led him away into the hall, called Praetorium; and they called together the whole band. And they clothed him in purple, and platted a crown of thorns…

  Just outside the cell, the young man called Marcus crept forward. He was not Judean, but from the Italian region of Picenum, with blond hair, freckles, and a pugnacious nose. Taking up a post beside the door, he began making frantic shorthand notes upon a wax tablet, preserving Symeon's words for ever and ever.

  * * *

  Not far away, a god stalked among the charred ruins of the Esquiline Hill. Short and stocky, well muscled and fit, the rising sun revealed streaks of red among his blond hair, echoing the crimson glint in his eye. The god's name was Nero.

  As mercurial as his uncle Gaius, and nearly as bloody, Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, Princeps Senatus, Pontifex Maximus, Tribune of the Plebs, father of his country, and Imperator of Rome's Legions had been recently given one more title: Divus. A godhead voted him by the whole Senate under the stony gaze of Rome's more traditional deities. Primus inter pares indeed.f us notion, elevating men to such lofty levels. the notion of Nero touting his godhead. It was un-Roman.s could se

  Trailing in the god's wake was a mere mortal, Titus Flavius Sabinus. In his early thirties, Sabinus owned a strong chin, a long straight nose, and bright blue eyes. His was a recently ennobled family, having only been in the Senate for the last hundred years. His great-grandfather had been a soldier-farmer in the best Roman tradition, fighting in the great civil war at Pharsalus—on the losing side.

  From opposing the Caesars, the Flavians now served them. As did the rest of the world.

  The god spoke. “What's the delay?”

  Sabinus was briskly concise. “Caesar, the engineers assure me they are working as fast as they can. There are acres of rubble to shift—”

  “Not nearly good enough,” retorted Nero grimly. “Commandeer more slaves. Homeless Romans are suffering, I among them! I refuse to inhabit that shabby relic any longer than necessary.” The god pointed back towards the magnificent structure on Palatine Hill that had once belonged to the Divine Augustus. Somehow it had been spared the ravages of the seven-day fire.

  What else was there for Sabinus to say? “Yes, Caesar.”

  In private, Sabinus ascribed to the Stoic philosophy, believing violent emotions stemmed from errors in reason. The philosopher Zeno declared the goal of life was to live in accord with nature, that virtue itself was enough cause for happiness.

  To be forced to serve a man so unpredictable, so ruled by passion, was a trial for Sabinus. But he was no idealist – no Cato of Utica, certainly! Though a Stoic at heart, Sabinus lived in the real world.

  The greatest Stoic of the modern age had been Nero's own tutor, Seneca. Dead less than a year, forced to kill himself when his name was unfairly linked to a plot to kill his pupil. Seneca dead, and Nero a god. The world was in chaos.

  They strode on, the mortal and the god, followed by the phalanx of freedman-assistants, licker-fish, and ass-spongers that Nero invariably collected. He called them his Augustiani. Preceding them all were the Praetorians, led by the two Prefects, Tigellinus and Nymphidius – men who lived only to do Caesar's will. Dressed in pure white, Caesar's bodyguards appeared like deadly doves against the charred, black remains of the bodies underfoot.

  The crowd retreated at the approach of the white-clad soldiers. Most of these gawkers were capite censi, mere Head Count citizens, too poor to belong to any of the five economic classes. But while some had come for alms, a few onlookers were here to search for kin. That they still searched a full three months after the fire spoke to the depth of their despair. They had lost everything. Many of their kindred had chosen to perish in the flames rather than exist in a world with nothing.

  It had been a terrifying night. The fire had broken out in the Circus Maximus, in the valley between the Palatine and Aventine hills. Winds blew it away from the Tiber, where it might have been snuffed out, sending it instead east across the Caelian hill and the space beyond. Then it had spread north again, roaring across the Carinae and the Subura, firing palaces and insulae alike. Temples built in ancient times were immolated, and nowhere seemed safe.

  Like Aeneas with Anchises, Sabinus had taken his father over his shoulder and, with his nephew and sons, he'd run for the open road, where so much of the city had gathered to watch as over six days their homes, business, and temples vanished into smoke. In the end, Sabinus' house had been spared. So many others had not. Of Rome's famous seven hills, four had been damaged. Of Rome's fourteen districts, only four emerged intact. Three had gone beyond all hope of salvage. The rest were ravaged and scorched in part, if not whole. The fire had acted as if driven by a will, sweeping through the city as if encouraged by the gods.

  Or one god.

  Watching the mourners, Nero murmured to Sabinus, “Poor fools. They claim I sang an ode to Venus while the city burned. As though that would be appropriate! I'd have picked the Song of Troy, particularly the sacking of the city and the death of Priam. More apt by far.” He began to sing in that high, carrying voice that commanded so much applause:


  Then son to mother, mother to her son, pointing to the place where Troy lies prostrate, will mark it afar with pointing finger, saying: “Yonder is Ilium where the smoke curls high to heaven, where the foul vapours hang.” The Trojans by that sign only will see their fatherland…

  Breaking off, Nero grinned. The humor eluded Sabinus, but he produced a smile nonetheless. His uncle, the retired general Vespasian, had once been inattentive during one of Nero's concerts, and the next day found himself called up out of retirement to govern the unruly Africa Province. The lesson was simple—appreciate Caesar's artistic talents or suffer the consequences.

  Everywhere around them were signs of the fire. In fairness, Sabinus reflected that Nero had actually managed the crisis well. He'd raised the required tribute all across Rome's client kingdoms to fund the rebuilding of Rome – better by far than imposing a tax upon an already suffering people. Suspending all military exercises on the Campus Martius (the field of Mars where young Romans learned to fight), he'd ordered up a sea of tents to house Rome's flotsam and thrown open the doors to Rome's public buildings to the homeless. Free bread for the hungry, and employment for all as the rebuilding began.

  The execution for all these arrangements fell on Sabinus' narrow shoulders. Elected one of this year's aediles, he was in charge of public maintenance. So, though Nero's orders had been excellent, it was Sabinus who had seen them through.

  Sabinus had thought this dawn stroll through the rubble was for Nero to view the reconstruction. Instead the young god was outlining the grand new domicile he'd conceived. “Not that the Domus Aurea will be a true domicile! No sleeping chambers, just room after room of delights: fountains, statuary, mosaics, frescoes, music, dance, mime! A place fit to recreate and fill the natural artist within! Open to everyone, of course. Rome's fault lies in too much engineering, not enough art!”