The Four Emperors Page 2

  Thinking of engineering, Sabinus had a promise to keep. “Caesar, I have a proposal from one of our contractors, Quintus Flavius Gaudentius.”

  Nero smiled. “Nepotism?”

  Sabinus flushed. As the family name Flavius indicated, Gaudentius was not just a hungry young architect, but also a distant cousin. “Yes. He wants to experiment with building materials.”

  “Pompeian bread?”

  Sabinus' smile was nearly genuine. “Almost as hard. Concrete. He claims it will reduce building time by two-thirds.”

  “If he lives up to that boast, I'll make him Caesar's personal architect!” Nero's pace suddenly slowed, and Sabinus traced Nero's darkening expression to several lowly denizens of the crossroads colleges. Officially a part of the cult of the Divine Augustus, these men existed off of low criminality and extortion. Those bully-boys had prevented anyone from fighting the fire in certain districts, beating anyone who tried. What could Caesar care about such low scum?

  Yet care he did, for he said, “Tigellinus. See them off.”

  “Yes, Caesar.” Gaius Ofonius Tigellinus was a venal soul with an appetite for power, having attained as much as a man outside the Senate possibly could. He was a member of the Ordo Equester, a knight. In the earliest days of Rome, cavalry were recruited from among those men who could supply their own horses, and so being a knight became synonymous with the highest rank of the First Class, just below senator. In Tigellinus' case, his membership in the Ordo Equester was particularly appropriate – he had achieved his office as Nero's Praetorian Prefect because he bred the most fantastic chariot horses.

  Tigellinus served as Nero's right hand, carrying out deeds that might revolt any other man, always striving to surprise Caesar with cruel and perverse innovations. Rumours regarding the fire swirled about him, as well. Oddly, just when they had all thought the blaze contained, it had broken out afresh – in Tigellinus' palace.

  As the white-clad Tigellinus marched over to disperse the criminals, Nero noted Sabinus' look of surprise. “You know them, Titus Flavius?”

  Sabinus answered carefully. “Yes, Caesar. I've encountered them several times this year. Rigging scales, selling 'protection' and the like.”

  “And they were in my company during the fire,” observed the god.

  Sabinus hadn't said so. Nor would he now. “Were they? I was much engaged.”

  Nero smiled. “Even villains, Sabinus, have their uses.”

  Sabinus was not a fanciful fellow, but in that moment he was certain the rumours were true. Even if Nero had not started the fire, the new god had fanned it until two-thirds of the city had vanished in flames. Allowing Rome to be rebuilt from Caesar's pure brain.

  Even for a man without imagination, Sabinus found that a terrifying prospect.

  * * *

  Startled, the scribe's stylus skidded across the wax and Marcus scampered away from the Tullianum door just as several smart-looking Romans approached.

  Inside the cell, Symeon was near the end of his tale when the new arrivals entered to escort Saul to his execution.

  “We won't die together?” asked Symeon.

  “Apparently not,” said Saul. “I, for one, am grateful. I do not think I could endure the sight of you on the cross.” He paused, and then said, “I wish I had known him in life.”

  “You never met our lord,” said Symeon. “But you knew him.”

  Another man might have smiled. Saul frowned. “I believe that's the kindest thing you've ever said to me. Tell me again there is nothing to fear.”

  “There is nothing to fear. Remember that, and let it be.”

  “Let it be.” They embraced, then Saul was marched away, leaving Symeon in the custody of his two jailers. “Well, Processus, Martinianus – shall we?”

  The Roman called Processus hesitated. “Before you go—today is the festival of Fontus. The god of wells and springs. It makes me think of what you said, the custom of your lord to wash away ill deeds. I…would like to be washed clean of this day. Of your death.” Martinianus murmured agreement.

  Symeon shook his head. “It is more than that, I fear. To be washed clean in the eyes of the Lord, you must accept Him as the one and only. No more Fontus. No more Jupiter. Just Him.”

  “I do accept Him,” said Martinianus at once.

  “And I,” echoed Processus.

  Pleased, Symeon could not imagine a worthier way to spend his last Moments. Always better doing good than talking of it. “We must be quick about it.”

  In the ancient days of the Roman kings, the Tullianum had been a cistern, and water still burbled below. A ladder was fetched and the three men descended. Surrounded by the bones of Rome's enemies, Symeon performed the baptismal ritual as he had done so many times before. Then, ascending the ladder, he followed the converts out into the October air, across the Tiber River to a field named for an ancient city, long vanished. This was the Campus Vaticanus.

  For years the Vatican had been empty, ager publicus, available to the public. But Rome was ever-growing, and Gaius Caesar had begun construction of a racetrack around the field. Nero had finished it, and with the destruction of the Circus Maximus, this was now the central gathering place for spectacles and sport.

  Nero's Circus.

  * * *

  Four sets of mass executions were slated for noon, all in different parts of the city, allowing every Roman to experience the proper vindication. For these Hebrews, it was said, had caused the Great Fire. So today they would be made to pay. Dubbing this The Great Catharsis, Nero devised the punishments himself.

  On the Aventine Hill, the condemned were doused with oil and lit with torches, the crowd taunting them as they ran a deadly race among the charred ruins.

  On the Quirinal Hill, savage boars were released to tear the sacrificial flesh, a cruel jest for people to whom pork was anathema.

  On the Campus Martius, dispossessed citizens were invited to cast stones into a crowd of Jews. They aimed at eyes, teeth, joints and loins – eager for vengeance, the mob was not after death, but suffering.

  Saul was escorted to a spot within sight of the grove atop the Caelian Hill. Closing his ears to the jeering masses, he knelt with several others. The axe passed through his neck almost without resistance. Mouth still moving in prayer, his severed head struck the ground and bounced three times. By the time it came to a rest, a bronzed sheen had passed over the eyes of Saul of Tarsus.

  * * *

  The most visible execution was saved for Symeon. As leader of the Hebrew sect accused of masterminding the inferno, he was to die alone, under the eyes of Caesar himself.

  Martinianus and Processus led their prisoner to the inner field of the Circus, where a massive Aegyptian obelisk of red marble stretched skywards. Beside it, an engineer waited beside a polished wooden cross that lay flat on the earth.

  Symeon was stripped naked, causing the crowd to jeer at the peculiar mutilation Hebrews ritually performed upon themselves. A hush fell as Nero, in his role as Princeps Senatus, leader of the Senate, rose in his private box to make a speech. The words were mostly lost on Symeon, whose Latin was not entirely fluent, but he did recognize a few words and phrases. Judea. Incendium. Perfidia. Chrestiani.

  Then it was time. Processus wept as Symeon stretched himself upon the cross. “What are you blubbering about?” demanded the engineer as he placed an eight-inch iron spike in the center of Symeon's palm. There was a sharp rap of the hammer and Symeon jerked, but he kept his teeth firmly shut as the spikes were driven home – one for each hand and a long one that rent both his ankles. But when they moved to lift him, he said, “Please. I am not worthy.”

  “I agree,” growled the engineer. “Even a slave's death is too good for you.”

  Symeon turned to his two Roman converts. “I beg you, not upright. I am not worthy to die as he did.”

  The engineer scoffed. “What other way? Upside down?”

  Closing his eyes, Symeon nodded. “That will do nicely.”

  The e
ngineer protested, but Martinianus and Processus were insistent. Reluctantly the engineer obliged and Symeon was hoisted with his head pointing down. The pain as they lifted him into place was sharp and surprising. Dirt was packed into the post-hole, along with wooden wedges to keep the cross upright. A careless shovel covered Symeon's face in the dry earth. Processus quickly knelt and wiped the dirt away.

  Trumpets blared and the races began. Symeon heard the chariots thundering past him, but already his vision was blurring. He could no longer hear the spectators.

  The last thing he saw was a wayward stone, dislodged by the digging of the post-hole. Across the stone, a grasshopper was resting, its legs folded as if in prayer.

  A prayer upon a rock.

  To the grasshopper he said, “Thank you, my lord.”

  * * *

  In the imperial box, Nero cheered the racers so fiercely his voice threatened to break. This was no common race. Today, the Ides of October, was the race of the October Horse, where the best war-horses in Rome were raced in pairs. Of the winning pair, the right-hand one was ritually slaughtered by the special priest of Mars, symbolically offering up the very best that Rome owned to the gods.

  As the racers completed the first of seven laps, the gaming officials in the center of the ring used long poles to flip over a metal dolphin suspended upon a rod. Moments later a metal egg was placed in a cup, marking the first turn of the next lap. Seven eggs, seven dolphins, then the race would be over.

  It was certainly nearly over for the Jew in the center of the ring. Sitting beside Nero Caesar, his wife Poppaea was making a scene. She was known to be sympathetic to the Jews, and even liked to pretend from time to time to be Hebrew herself. Now she wept fiercely, clawed at the air and her own skin – but not her beautiful face. Grief had its limits.

  Turning on her cushioned seat, she held out her arms to her personal guest, a handsome young Hebrew priest. “Yosef! Yosef, tell me your God will forgive us!”

  Yosef ben Matityahu pressed his lips tight, framing his reply. He had come from Jerusalem to plead on behalf of four men condemned by the bigoted, pecunious governor of Judea. Introduced to Caesar's wife by the Hebrew actor Alliturus, Yosef had appealed to her altruism, seduced her to his cause with his low, musical voice. His four men were released, and for a few weeks he had strutted through Rome's Hebrew communities as a great man.

  His pitiful success was now dwarfed by today's immense loss of life. Yet in this mass slaughter, Yosef saw not hatred of Hebrews, but rather a love of violence. Yes, there were epithets and slurs that were particular to the Jews, but tomorrow it could be the Britons, or the Parthians, or the Germans. The foe, Yosef understood shrewdly, was only an object of the pageant of blood, not its cause.

  “If this is justice, then the Lord will approve,” answered Yosef carefully – he was within earshot of the ruler of the world, and did not fancy joining his fellow Hebrews in death. “But the Lord reserves vengeance for Himself.”

  Nero turned sharply, and Yosef blanched. He had never yet spoken to the short, blond god-on-earth, never even been in his presence.

  But Nero was smiling. “That's just right. Vengeance is reserved for us gods.”

  Drying her eyes, Poppaea grinned and blew her husband a kiss. Theirs was a tempestuous relationship, and she might just as easily have struck him.

  As Nero returned to watching the race, Yosef frowned. Somehow he had made Caesar feel better about slaughtering so many of his people.

  Does that make me a traitor?

  * * *

  Some rows back from Caesar's private box, Sabinus listened as his elder son hooted for his favourite chariot team. His firstborn son was the third to be named Titus Flavius Sabinus, and so he was called Sabinus Tertius – Sabinus the Third. A normal fourteen year-old, alternately wild and insecure, Tertius was quite unlike the boy on Sabinus' other side. Named for Sabinus' dead wife Clementia, his younger son was called Titus Flavius Clemens.

  Young Clemens was both a brilliant intellectual and a feckless wastrel. An idealistic cynic, a lover of language and uneasy thoughts, the boy was congenitally opposed to work, capable only of short bursts of excited exertion. Only twelve years of age, already his eyes bore the disillusionment of a man thrice his age. Most troubling to his Stoic father, Clemens was devoted to that lowest of art forms, the theatre.

  Now, as everyone else watched the chariots, Clemens was staring at the crucified man in the inner field. “Will he die soon?”

  “Very soon, I imagine,” answered Sabinus. “Quicker than if he were upright.”

  “Good. He shouldn't suffer.”

  Sabinus arched an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “He didn't start the fire,” said Clemens. “He's innocent. This is a Tragedy.”

  Sabinus leaned warningly close. “Don't let Caesar hear you saying that.”

  “Father, it was Caesar who—”

  “Tace,” hissed Sabinus. “Shut your mouth. And don't believe everything you hear. Caesar was in Ancona when the fire broke out.” Clemens opened his mouth, but Sabinus quelled his son with a painful grip on the boy's knee. “Watch the race.”

  The boy murmured obediently. Yet, unknown to his father, Clemens continued to surreptitiously watch the man hanging upside-down upon the cross. Death did not trouble Clemens. Nor did the idea of execution – the State had the right to eliminate its foes, just as a master had the right to take the life of a slave, or a father that of a troublesome child.

  But just as the execution of a whole household of slaves had recently led to riots protesting a monumental cruelty, so too was this execution crueler than need be. They allowed the dying man no dignity at all. There was a famous passage from Homer that Clemens knew by heart:

  It is entirely seemly for a young man slain in battle to lie mangled by the bronze spear, for in his death all things appear beautiful. But when dogs gnaw upon the gray head and whiskered chin of old men, exposing their naked loins, it is the most piteous thing we wretched mortals may behold.

  Those words were at the center of every Roman. The idea of a good death. Pompey the Great had died well. So too the great Divus Caesar. Yet here was an old man, a white-bearded grandfather, bald as an egg on top, dying in as unlovely a manner as man could conjure. It was meant to humiliate the dying man, but Clemens felt as if the humiliation were his own.

  A man should die with a sword in his hand. If this man really was an enemy to Rome, then he should be allowed to take his own life or face a swift execution.

  I shall die on my feet, blade in hand, decided Clemens, picturing the scene as though from a play. Death shall find nothing shameful in me.

  * * *

  Nero had strong reason to choose the Hebrews as his personal nemesis. His claim to godhood was one that only Jews could not accept. For them, there was but one God, a divinity they refused to name or even refer to. Taking it as a personal affront, the Divine Nero had set himself to humbling these Judeans, both as a nation and as individuals. These executions were only the beginning. Judea would bear the brunt of the taxation that would renew Rome once more. If they did not like it, they could dash themselves on the jagged rocks of Rome's legions.

  Naturally, his beloved wife had taken a perverse liking for these troublesome peoples. Perhaps it was their defiance of him that attracted her. Whatever the cause, she was sympathetic to their plight – so far as she understood it.

  As the racers thudded past in their bigae and the counters placed another egg in the cup, turned another dolphin's nose down, Poppaea Sabina ignored her husband's favourite sport. Instead she stroked Yosef's hand and asked him questions, allowing no time for answers. “I imagine Judea as a land of desolate beauty – all deserts and wind and empty spaces. Is it? Oh, I do hope that Cleopatra likes it there – I don't mean the Cleopatra, of course. No, my dear friend Cleopatra is wife of the new governor, Gessius Florus – have you met him? They were a bit out of funds, so I arranged for my Caesar to send Florus to Judea. A bit stodgy, I know, but
one cannot choose one's husband – well, I did, didn't I? But I am exceptional.”

  “In every way,” replied Yosef. He knew he was being used to make her husband jealous, but it was hard to stop his heart from racing. Poppaea was very beautiful, a natural and careless beauty that had men making fools of themselves for her. It was proof of Nero's godhead that he had found a Venus to be his bride.

  But the words this Venus spoke helped keep Yosef's lust in check. He had, in fact, met Governor Florus. One would be hard-pressed to find a more odious villain in all the world. From the moment they arrived, Florus and his wife Cleopatra had made it clear that they despised all Jews. It had been Florus who had condemned the four priests Yosef had come to rescue. If sending Florus to Judea was the form of Poppaea's favouritism, better she had never heard of the place.

  Clutching his hand, the goddess continued to prattle. “Now, tell me, Yosef, is it true about Hebrew priests? That they are given to fits of prophecy? O, tell me something that will come to pass!”

  Yosef made his apologies, explaining that he had never been gifted with the Sight. Which was not entirely true. During fasts and cleanses, he had experienced visions. But his only prophecy was one he dared not utter: that Caesar was sowing a crop of hate that would spring up to consume Rome itself.

  * * *

  The races ended when the rains came. “Jupiter! What good is it being a god when the great god sends his rain! Sabinus, with me!” In a foul temper, Nero left his wife to flirt with her pet Jew while he was carried in a covered litter across the river. Sending both his sons home, Sabinus dutifully followed Caesar.

  They attended the sacrifice of the October Horse under a drizzling veil or rain that blotted out the sky. But the omens were fine, so the animal was slaughtered, stabbed with a spear and then beheaded. The head and genitalia were removed. While the citizens of Rome's two poorest districts vied in a vicious game of sport to gain possession of the head, the genitals were rushed to the Regia, the ancient office of kings and priests, to sprinkle blood on the sacred hearth of Rome. Later they would be burned by the Vestal Virgins and baked into cakes to celebrate the anniversary of Rome's founding.