Emperor of Rome Read online

  ‘And Caligula claimed to be a living god, and look what he was like.’

  ‘Caligula was just having a massive joke at everyone’s expense. Claudius was worshipped as a god whilst he was still alive. If it helps the more ignorant and superstitious of my subjects to accept me as their Emperor then it has to be a good thing. Look at it this way, Magnus: whatever can be done to keep me in power in order to stabilise the Empire has to be the sensible choice and if it means projecting me as the prophesied messiah, then so be it.’

  ‘But it’s bollocks.’

  ‘Of course it’s bollocks, I know that and you know that; Caenis knows it, as do Tiberius Alexander, Mucianus and Titus, but does the common peasant in Egypt know it? Or a goatherd in Cilicia? Or, more importantly, the average citizen of Rome who does nothing apart from accept handouts and attend the free games? It doesn’t matter what you think, it’s what they think that counts.’

  ‘But you’re going to look really silly in front of your peers.’

  ‘Since when have you been worried about what the pompous arseholes – as you term them – think? Besides, they will know that it’s just a conceit; I’ve got far more pressing problems with my peers than worrying if they think that I think I really am the messiah. I’ve got to get them to realise that they are better off with me as emperor than without me and embarking on another civil war.’

  Magnus turned his good eye to his old friend. ‘You are really going through with this, aren’t you?’

  ‘What, being the messiah?’

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Magnus; yes, I do. And yes, I am going to go through with it; now that I’ve made the decision I’ve come to accept the inevitability of it. Everything has pointed to this moment and although inside I’m terrified, I can’t see how to fight it. If I refuse to take it then I’m dead; just as Sejanus said to me all those years ago when he didn’t grab power when he could but, rather, waited for it to come to him. Who would have thought that it would have been Sejanus of all people who gave me such a valuable piece of advice? But there it is, and so I’m starting to get an inner calm about the whole thing; within a few days I’m going to be hailed as Emperor of Rome and there is nothing that I can do to stop it: if I say yes, me and my family live, and if I refuse, we all die.’

  ‘It’s pretty bleak either way you look at it.’

  ‘Why do you think that? Don’t you want me to be the Emperor? Just imagine all the favours I can do for you.’

  ‘It’s just that I can’t really picture you as emperor, you know, all pompous, patrician and dignified, looking as if you’re dealing with an even bigger turd than you normally look like you’re trying to pass, if you take my meaning?’

  Vespasian chuckled. ‘First of all I’m not a patrician, and secondly, I’m not pompous, at least I hope I’m not. And as to the turd, whatever its size, somehow I will always manage to pass it but I’ll invariably look as if the strain could kill me. No, Magnus, I’m not going to change if that’s what you are worried about. I’m going to remain the New Man, with a country burr from the Sabine Hills, who appreciates a good arse-joke and enjoys running his estate. The only difference will be that my estate will be the entire Empire, which, when I inherit it, will not have sufficient cash to keep it going. And that is the real reason that I’m taking this on, Magnus: because I know how to run an estate, it’s in my blood. I’m the right man to get the Empire back on its feet after the madness of Nero and the tragedy of civil war. That’s why I’ve come to accept my fate; it’s so obvious to me that it has to be me. But it won’t change me.’

  Magnus looked dubious. ‘Well, I hope not. I used to say that change pleases, but now the older I get, and I don’t suppose I’ll get much older than this, I’ve come to appreciate that stability pleases. And what with poor Castor and Pollux now gone I wouldn’t want … I would hate it if … well, you take my meaning, I’m sure?’

  Vespasian was touched by his friend’s clumsy attempt to say how much he valued their friendship and would be loath to lose it. ‘I do take your meaning, Magnus, I always do; and there is no need for you to worry, we’ll … well, you know.’ He gave Magnus a playful punch on the arm to cover the embarrassment of such an intimate moment.

  Magnus wiped his good eye. ‘Bloody salt’s making it water.’

  ‘Yes, it does sting,’ Vespasian agreed, running a finger under his own eye. He cleared his throat and then, looking out to sea, pretended, as did Magnus, that he felt no emotion.

  ‘“Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus—”’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Vespasian said, holding up his hand, turning from the terrace balustrade and halting Caenis. ‘I haven’t taken those names.’

  Caenis looked at him from her chair, set in the shade, with infinite patience. ‘My love, you haven’t even been proclaimed yet, but when we arrived back here in Caesarea you asked me to draft the letter to Vitellius that you’ll send once you have been.’

  ‘But why “Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus”? Why not “Titus Flavius Vespasianus Caesar Augustus”?’

  ‘If that’s what you want then I’ll change it.’

  Vespasian narrowed his eyes. ‘Why did you choose that form?’

  ‘Because apart from Vitellius, who didn’t take the name Caesar, all emperors have been Caesar Augustus going back to Caligula and I thought that it might be a wise move to disassociate yourself from them whilst still retaining the names that symbolise imperial power.’

  ‘You’re getting to be quite shrewd in your old age.’

  ‘I don’t call sixty-two old; now if I might proceed?’

  Vespasian waved her on and turned back to watch the night-fishing boats dock below him accompanied by hundreds of gulls wailing in anticipation of breakfast.

  ‘“Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus greets Aulus Vitellius.”’ Caenis looked up. ‘You’ll notice that I omitted the “Germanicus Augustus” part of his name.’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘“And invites him to retire on a pension of one million sesterces a year to a villa of his choice in Campania as his services to the state are no longer required. There he may live, without fear of molestation, with his wife and children as well as a household that he sees as being commensurate to his dignity. In the course of time his sons will be free to enter public office without let or hindrance. Failure to take up this offer will have military consequences which I would hope that we both wish to avoid. Furthermore, it should be noted that I myself am proceeding to Egypt to take command of the grain supply. The bearer of this letter, my freedman, Titus Flavius Hormus, has my authority and therefore his person is inviolate.”’ Caenis rolled up the draft. ‘Well? What do you think?’

  Vespasian did not respond.

  ‘My love, what do you think?’

  Still Vespasian said nothing but continued staring out across the port.

  Caenis rose to join him. ‘What is it?’

  Vespasian pointed to a sleek and fast little liburnian under full sail, speeding up from the south. ‘There, that ship; I’ll wager that’s coming from Egypt with news.’

  Caenis gripped Vespasian’s arm. ‘So, it’s to be today, my love. It’s time to get ready to be surprised.’

  Vespasian said nothing; his stomach lurched and he felt sick.

  Vespasian held his arms out for Hormus to tie the straps on his breast- and backplates, burnished to a dazzling degree, as a body slave knelt behind him, securing his greaves, which were equally as polished. ‘You will leave with the letter for Vitellius immediately, Hormus.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘And there is one for Sabinus too.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Stay with him; his position as prefect of Rome should protect you, as Vitellius hasn’t dismissed him. With luck you will be in Rome before the calends of next month around the time that I shall arrive in Antioch. Send word to me there and then the following month I should be in Alexand
ria.’

  ‘You don’t wish me to come in person, master?’ Hormus asked as he changed sides, kicking the slave out of the way.

  ‘No, I need you to be my eyes and ears for a while in Rome; Sabinus and Domitian are too conspicuous and may have their correspondence intercepted, and if Vitellius does refuse my offer their positions could become untenable. You on the other hand—’

  ‘Are insignificant, master?’ Hormus cut in.

  ‘In Vitellius’ eyes, yes.’

  Hormus beamed at the implied compliment and kicked the slave again as he fastened the last strap. ‘The cloak!’

  The slave scuttled off as Hormus began to tie the red sash around Vespasian’s midriff.

  ‘But I’ll need you to do a greater service, Hormus,’ Vespasian continued, ‘because if it should come to war, it will be vital to get a message to Mucianus at Aquileia so that it is waiting for him there when he arrives, which, with luck, will be in late September. That cannot just be a written message; it has to be delivered in person by someone Mucianus can trust.’

  ‘I am honoured, master. You can rely on me.’ Hormus snatched the cloak, brilliant scarlet, from the returning slave and draped it over Vespasian’s shoulders.

  ‘I know I can; you’re one of the few in whom I can have complete trust and it will not go unrewarded when this is all over.’

  Hormus flushed with pride as he secured the cloak with a silver clasp engraved with the image of Mars.

  Vespasian looked down at the engraving. ‘An appropriate choice, Hormus.’

  ‘I thought so, master.’

  ‘Today, of all days, I pray that he will hold his hands over me and that, with his good help, success will crown my work.’ Vespasian picked up his high-plumed helmet, rubbed an imaginary smudge away, took a deep breath and then strode from the room.

  It was Traianus who waited at the top of the steps of the Governor’s residence and behind him were arrayed all the tribunes of the X Fretensis and the XV Apollinaris, as well as many of the centurions from both legions; to the side stood Caenis, Magnus and Titus. Beyond, covering the whole forum, was a multitude of faces; hard, legionary faces, waiting in absolute silence.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Vespasian said in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone.

  ‘Imperator!’ Traianus bellowed.

  The officers followed his lead. ‘Imperator! Imperator!’

  Vespasian stopped still as if hit by an invisible wall.

  The legionaries joined in the acclamation. ‘Imperator! Imperator!’ It travelled like a wave back through the crowd and then beyond the forum so Vespasian realised that the whole army was present, out of sight in side streets, filling the whole of Caesarea. ‘Imperator! Imperator! Imperator!’ And so it went on as Vespasian stood still, neither acknowledging nor denying the chant.

  For a few more heartbeats he let it go on as he adjusted himself to the reality that his life had changed in a seismic manner; and then he remembered that he had a part to play. He held up his hands for silence. It took a long while coming. ‘What is this that you confer upon me?’ he asked, his voice cutting through the last faint shouts from the distance. ‘What is it you want of me?’

  Traianus half turned to the crowd for them better to hear his reply. ‘We, the army of Judaea, follow the lead of the Egyptian legions who proclaimed you imperator three days ago in Alexandria. We, like they, choose you. Caesar! Augustus! Imperator!’

  And again, the shout was deafening as it rose from thousands of throats.

  And again, Vespasian raised his hands for quiet.

  And again, it was slow to manifest.

  ‘Do we not have an existing oath to an emperor in Rome?’ Vespasian asked as soon as he could be heard. ‘Have we all not sworn to Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus together? I cannot accept this proclamation.’

  But Traianus was insistent. ‘The army of Judaea choose you, Caesar, over the fat prig in Rome. Imperator!’

  Once more the cry thundered around the forum and Vespasian stood, his hands over his ears as if trying to block it from his consciousness. For a few more heartbeats he let it continue and then, with a dramatic gesture, turned his back on the crowd. The steady chant turned into an angry roar until Traianus’ voice rose above it, shrill and piercing. ‘Do you refuse us, Caesar Augustus? Do you refuse the wishes of the army of Judaea?’

  ‘I cannot accept what is another man’s; a man to whom I am sworn,’ Vespasian replied without turning around, his voice equally as forceful.

  ‘We insist, Imperator; we, the army of Judaea, will have our Emperor.’

  Vespasian heard the ringing of a drawing sword.

  ‘And we have chosen you.’

  Vespasian turned to see Traianus approaching him, armed; behind him the tribunes were unsheathing their weapons and mounting the steps. ‘Do you threaten me with violence should I refuse your request?’

  ‘We will have our way or our shame at rejection will be great indeed.’

  Vespasian extended the palms of his hands. ‘Hold there!’ He waited until all had stilled. ‘I do not seek this title, nor do I voluntarily accept it, as you have witnessed, but if you wish to confer it upon me under pressure, threatening me with naked weapons, then I have no choice but to accept. If you push me forward then I have no option but to lead you. Is that the wish of you all?’

  And the shout went up again, this time louder than before; a cacophony of ‘Caesar! Augustus! Imperator!’ Vespasian extended his arms and received it, his eyes closed. Lifting his face to the sky, the image of Mars burning in his mind, he turned left and then right, wallowing in the accolade. Caenis, Titus and Magnus looked on with tears on their cheeks for the man they loved; the man who had just been proclaimed the ninth Emperor of Rome.

  PART III

  EGYPT, AUTUMN AD 69

  CHAPTER XIII

  HOW WORD HAD spread Vespasian knew not, but that it clearly had was evident from the masses of people, crammed around the base of the towering Pharos lighthouse, waiting to greet their new Emperor. And it was for them an occasion indeed, for an emperor had not come to Egypt since Augustus and they cheered themselves hoarse as the ships bearing Vespasian and his considerable escort drew near to the Great Harbour of Alexandria. Despite the rages of an Egyptian September sun, more crowds of locals greeted him from the concrete moles that protected the harbour, each over half a mile in length. Waving and calling him ‘Caesar Augustus’, they danced and jigged as the flotilla, led by the imperial quinquereme, glided through the harbour mouth, bringing their Emperor home to his own personal fiefdom.

  ‘It don’t seem any less impressive the second time around,’ Magnus observed, standing behind Vespasian’s chair, looking up at the Pharos topped with a statue of Poseidon over four hundred feet above them.

  Vespasian, his gold-plated breastplate and greaves gleaming, peered from under the cotton canopy shading him, as he sat in regal state on a curule chair, his bald pate adorned with a laurel wreath; Caenis sat next to him, slightly set back, and twelve lictors stood in a phalanx in front of him. ‘You remember the last time we were here, Magnus, when Caligula wanted to drive across his bridge wearing Alexander’s breastplate?’

  ‘Yeah, young Ziri was alive, the fuzzy little desert-dweller.’ Magnus’ face lengthened as he remembered his long-dead favoured slave. ‘I still miss him, especially now that Castor and Pollux …’ He stopped himself from going into a maudlin reminiscence.

  ‘Anyway,’ Vespasian carried on, used by now to Magnus’ depression, ‘I said that’s how to make people remember you: build something that is of use to everybody and not just a three-mile-long bridge as Caligula did.’

  ‘Yeah, and I asked you who built the Circus Maximus and you didn’t know, thus proving that your theory don’t always work.’

  ‘Yes, well, be that as it may, that is what I’m going to do in Rome.’

  ‘What? Build a lighthouse?’

  ‘Of course not; what good would that be?’

  ‘
That’s what I was wondering.’

  ‘No, it has to be something that everyone would enjoy. Pompey has his theatre, Caesar has his forum, Agrippa his baths, Claudius his port, Augustus, well, Augustus has countless buildings, so what should I have?’

  ‘Don’t forget Nero’s Golden House with his statue the size of a colossus, my love,’ Caenis said. ‘I’ll tell you what people would remember you for and that is tearing that monstrosity down because it reminds them of the fire he started to get the land on which to build it.’

  Vespasian again held a dignified hand in the air to acknowledge the greetings of the citizens of Alexandria. ‘Yes, that’s an excellent idea; I’ll do that and then I’ll build something in its place using the bricks and stone.’ Vespasian’s eyes brightened at the thought. ‘That will make it much cheaper if I don’t have to buy all the materials; and, what’s more, I’ll have plenty of free Jewish slaves to work on it.’

  ‘Nice and cheap,’ Magnus scoffed, ‘just how you like it. So, what’s it going to be, then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The thing we’re talking about, the thing you’re going to build.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know yet; I’ll have to see how much space there is when the Golden House comes down.’

  ‘Well, if you want my opinion, the thing that everyone would appreciate best would be an amphitheatre like we saw in Cyzicus, you remember, that huge one built over a river so that it could be flooded and you could have sea battles in it. That would be great and we’d all love it, all of us apart from the gladiators and those idiots who get themselves damned to the wild beasts, that is.’

  Vespasian contemplated the idea, acknowledging the crowds as the city opened up before him. It was exactly how he remembered it with its grand waterfront, a mixture of private villas, temples and warehouses running from the Heptastadium, the mole that joined the Pharos Island to the mainland thus dividing the harbour into the Old Port and the Great Harbour, to the Palace of the Ptolemys to the left, now the prefect’s residence. He squinted up at the elegant structure, built by a dynasty of untold wealth, and could make out the terrace on the second floor from which he, Magnus and Flavia had escaped by rope to avoid the attention of the then prefect, Flaccus, on the night that they had stolen Alexander’s breastplate from his mausoleum. And here he was again, he reflected, returning with the breastplate to Alexandria; but this time he was coming not as Caligula’s thief but, rather, as Caligula’s successor.