Emperor of Rome Read online

  In the, almost, three months since his proclamation as emperor, Vespasian had grown accustomed to the title and the sycophancy that it attracted.

  Once he had received the oath of the army of Judaea, administered that very afternoon of his proclamation, he had proceeded north to Berytus in Syria where he had rendezvoused with Mucianus who had brought with him the entire VI Ferrata and detachments from the other Syrian legions, a force of around eighteen thousand men. With great ceremony he had taken their oath and handed Mucianus the imperial mandate authorising him to march to Rome and secure the capital for the rightful Emperor should the city not be surrendered by Vitellius. Mucianus had departed promptly on his mission, promising to make good time and to wait at Aquileia for instructions one way or the other. Vespasian had then remained in Berytus for the many client kings of the East to come to him and swear their loyalty; and they all came: the client kings of Commagene, Cilicia, Pergamon as well as lesser tetrarchies and other domains. Messengers from all the governors of the East: Asia, Bithynia, Cappadocia, Galatia and Achaea, stated that all had taken the oath to Vespasian, whilst rich gifts from Tiridates of Armenia and Vologases greatly increased his treasury and he was able to dispense a degree of largesse. But it was not only the powerful who came to pay homage but also the ordinary folk; many flocked to him to bring, as was their right as citizens, petitions, appeals and pleas for him to rule on. And so he spent many days wading through the grievances of those less fortunate than himself: adjudicating on property disputes, rights of ownership of slaves, contracts of supply to the army, wills, inheritance, citizenship, accusations of corruption and all the other things that affect the lives of the common man, including whether he should live or die as those condemned to death put their lives in the Emperor’s hands for confirmation of the sentence, or commuting to a lesser forfeit or, perhaps, acquittal. He had then moved north to Antioch, the capital of the province, and had gone through the same procedure there and thereby securing the complete support of the most powerful province in the East.

  On his second day in Antioch, Hormus’ letter arrived with the not unexpected news that Vitellius had refused Vespasian’s offer; it was now inevitable that there would be civil war, East against West.

  It was after news reached him that the Moesian and Pannonian legions had sworn to him and that they too were marching west, that he had decided that the time had come to travel to Egypt in order to place his hand around Vitellius’ throat by taking control of the grain supply. And so here he was finally beginning his roundabout journey to Rome, with the support of the two kings who could have made trouble for him, Vologases and Tiridates, and having spent valuable time securing the eastern half of the Empire to leave it united behind him – time very well spent. There was only one problem, at least only one that he knew of, and that was Jerusalem; but that was something that he would send Titus to deal with once his son had been feted by the Egyptians and his position as heir apparent accepted by the people and legions alike. In the meantime, Traianus was slowly tightening the blockade on the holy city of the Jews still riven by the murderous faction fighting of fundamentalist fanatics.

  Vespasian smiled to himself as he contemplated the ease, so far, with which he had managed to take the East and prayed that the West would be as straightforward; but that was perhaps for Amun to guide him. Although he was still unsure of the question he should ask, he intended to consult the oracle as soon as his business with the Alexandrians permitted. And, as the quinquereme started slowing in preparation for docking, he hoped that his business would not take too long; but however quick it was, Vespasian knew that, with winter approaching, he would not be able to sail to Rome until at least the spring.

  With a stream of incomprehensible nautical jargon from the trierarch and his subordinates, the great quinquereme lowered its mainsail, shipped its oars and, with majesty befitting of the cargo that it bore, slid under the power of a half-furled foresail into its berth; cables flew, uncoiling, through the air, to be caught and fastened to stout posts by scuttling, barefoot dockworkers. With the creaking of straining rope and wood, the ship’s momentum eased until it rested, with a slight jolt, on the sacks of hay hanging from the posts to protect its hull from the grating of the rough concrete of which the quays in the Great Harbour were constructed; for it was here that Vespasian had ordered his flotilla to dock and not in the private port of the royal palace, a place hidden from view from the common people. And it was the common people, who lined the quays in their thousands and cheered and waved, who he now needed to awe, since the province’s two legions, the XXII Deiotariana and the III Cyrenaica, were his already, their oath taken by Tiberius Alexander in payment for the debt he owed Vespasian for saving his life more than thirty years before. It was not so much that he cared for the common people but more because the Alexandrians were amongst the most volatile populations in the Empire and Vespasian had witnessed at first hand just what happens when the Alexandrians riot. He had, therefore, realised that to truly control the city, and thereby the province along with all its wealth, especially the grain, the people needed to love him.

  Vespasian did not move as deck-hands raced about, securing the vessel whilst the ship’s complement of a century of marines formed up, facing Vespasian and his lictors, on the foredeck; whistles blew and shouts were raised until all was in place and the gangplank lowered.

  Titus appeared on deck from the cabin below and Magnus, along with Caenis, moved away from the Emperor sitting in state beneath his canopy. Vespasian signalled to his son to stand at his right shoulder as a man in an equestrian toga walked, with high-nosed dignity, up the gangway accompanied by a togate escort of equal decorum.

  ‘It’s a good start,’ Vespasian observed to Titus, as, with a bark from their leader, the lictors parted so that the reception committee might have direct access to the object of their reverence. ‘It seems that the whole city has turned out to welcome us.’

  Titus stifled a yawn and looked around at the crowd made up of both men and women with their brats in tow, dressed mainly in the Greek style. ‘Not many Jews,’ he said after scanning the faces for a while.

  ‘Well, at least the most important one is here.’ Vespasian turned his attention to the leader of the delegation as it halted ten paces from his chair.

  ‘Hail, Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus,’ Tiberius Alexander declaimed, his voice high and carrying. ‘The citizens of Alexandria and the whole of Egypt welcome their new Emperor with a joy not felt since the coming of your predecessor, Augustus, more than sixty years ago.’ Tiberius turned and took a small chest from one of his attendants and then presented it to Vespasian. ‘Princeps, please receive this, your rightful possession, from the safe-keeping of your servant and representative in this province.’

  Vespasian took the chest, set it upon his knees and opened the lid. Reaching in, he pulled out a key, a golden key that glistered in the sun.

  ‘The key to the treasury of Alexandria is now returned to its true owner. Hail Caesar!’

  With a mighty shout all those in hearing distance joined in so that soon the cry spread throughout the city; palm fronds were waved aloft and the air was filled with incense and the smoke from many sacrifices. Vespasian rose to his feet and stepped out from beneath the canopy, holding the key above his head. He waited as the cheering subsided and people became aware that he was about to address them.

  ‘Your Emperor thanks you, Prefect Tiberius Alexander, and the people of the province of Egypt, for delivering to me my property and having faithfully watched over it in my absence.’ This drew a second resounding roar as all conveniently overlooked the fact that Vespasian had not yet been recognised by the Senate, the Praetorian Guard and the western half of the Empire; mere trivialities like that were not about to spoil everyone’s day.

  As the cheering continued, Vespasian took Tiberius Alexander’s forearm in a firm clench of greeting. ‘What do you have planned, my friend?’

  ‘Cohorts from both th
e legions are here waiting to escort you to the Caesareum for a sacrifice and then on to the forum where I’ve had a rostrum set up for you to publicly receive petitions and listen to appeals and pleas.’

  Vespasian smiled as if this was the very thing he desired; having already presided over many such sessions in Antioch and Berytus he was coming to realise that the burden of the Purple lay more in the mass of the minutiae rather than in a few grand schemes and ideas. ‘Very good, prefect; how many days do you estimate?’

  ‘How many days have you got, Princeps?’

  Vespasian sighed as he suppressed the urge to give an untruthful answer. ‘I won’t be able to sail to Rome until at least May next year so that I can arrive with the grain fleet and be seen as the bringer of sustenance.’

  ‘That should just about give you enough time, Princeps.’

  *

  On a white horse of proud bearing and great beauty, Vespasian processed through the wide thoroughfares of Alexandria, his back straight, his thighs gripping the beast’s flanks and his feet hanging free. Preceded by his twelve lictors and followed by Titus and the stamping of four thousand legionaries, taken from both of the Egyptian legions, he acknowledged the crowd, sometimes ten to twelve deep, cheering themselves hoarse; Vespasian, however, had no illusions on the subject, he was a man they had absolutely no knowledge of other than through the propaganda that had been peddled by Tiberius Alexander. He was equally under no illusions that the prefect had paid off the debt he owed him by delivering Egypt so comprehensively into his hands.

  And so, after sacrificing a white bullock in an emotional ceremony at the Caesareum, built by Cleopatra in memory of her dead lover, Vespasian came to the forum, larger and grander than any built so far in Rome, and there he dismounted. As the lictors formed up along the base of the rostrum and the cohorts stood to attention, still in column, carving the crowd in two, he ascended the steps, and, to the mightiest roar of the day, he received the acclamation of Alexandria.

  On it went, pulsating as a combination of Greek, Latin, Aramaic and Egyptian blended, lauding him in different forms of words so that nothing was clear; and yet all was clear, for the meaning of the cacophony was in no doubt, and Vespasian was left in no doubt that the province was safe. With an extravagant opening of his arms he looked down at Titus and called him up onto the rostrum. In marked contrast to the dignity with which his father had mounted the steps, Titus leapt up them, taking them two at a time, in the spirit of a young man of action. As he reached the top, Vespasian took his left hand in his right and punched the air; the din increased still further.

  Vespasian turned to Titus, as they thumped their arms up and down to the beat of the cheer, and grinned with uncontrolled glee.

  ‘Well, Father,’ Titus said, his enjoyment of the moment only too self-evident, ‘it looks like we’ve founded a new dynasty.’

  The smile faded on Vespasian’s face; he turned back to the crowd as he realised the full implication of his eldest son’s statement: how would his younger son, Domitian, react to not having a leading role in that dynasty?

  Finally Vespasian knew what question he would ask of Amun.

  It was with disgust that Vespasian watched the effete young Greek grovelling on the ground before him, screaming. He had not liked him at first sight and after three hours of listening to various degrees of truth and lies from many different citizens on many different subjects, Vespasian had not been in the mood to entertain the palpable falsehoods that the man, a spice merchant by profession, had levelled against Tiberius Alexander. Each accusation the prefect had disproved with clinical care and had proven beyond doubt that the merchant had attempted to blackmail him by killing a rival and falsifying the evidence so that it looked to be the prefect’s doing.

  ‘And see that he gets a clean death,’ Vespasian said to the magistrate overseeing the day’s legal proceedings. ‘He may be an odious, lying little toad but he is still a citizen; now take him away.’ Howling, the man was dragged from Vespasian’s presence.

  ‘Thank you, Princeps,’ Tiberius Alexander said, his expression one of relief that the verdict had been in his favour.

  ‘I can tell when someone is trying to get out of paying the lawful import tax on valuable spices by threatening to ruin the reputation of the man who collects those taxes, Tiberius. He was being greedy, and I’ll not have that.’ Vespasian raised his voice so that all the spectators around the open-air court could hear. ‘I’ll not have people trying to defraud my revenues and I wish all to see that.’ He consulted the scroll giving the order of the hearings, drawn by lot. The two names up next meant nothing to him; he gestured to the magistrate. ‘Bring the next case forward.’

  ‘The two men coming now, Princeps,’ Tiberius Alexander said, moving closer to the dais in order to lower his voice, ‘are not here to plead a case before you, but, rather, to ask for your help.’

  ‘Help in what?’

  ‘Help to cure them of their afflictions.’

  ‘Afflictions? I’m not a doctor.’

  ‘No, Princeps, but perhaps you have other powers.’

  Vespasian looked at the two men approaching him; one, his eyes bound, was being guided by the other, his two gnarled and bandaged hands resting on his shoulders. Both were dressed in rags, with matted hair and beards; neither had shoes.

  ‘What am I meant to do with them, Tiberius?’

  ‘Just do as they ask and have a little faith in yourself.’

  ‘Faith?’ He looked down at the two supplicants falling to their knees at the foot of the steps to the dais and then signalled to the magistrate.

  ‘You may address your Emperor,’ the magistrate said, not hiding his revulsion at the two ragged and filthy figures.

  The blind man raised his head and held out his arms in roughly Vespasian’s direction, beseeching him. ‘Princeps, three months ago, I was struck by a curse of the gods; you can make me see again.’

  ‘And you can heal my fingers, Princeps,’ the other man said holding out his crooked hands, his expression pleading.

  Vespasian managed to restrain an explosive guffaw by putting his hand to his mouth and turning the noise into a fit of coughing. When he had control of himself once more, he managed to affect a sombre countenance. ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Rub saliva in my eyes, Princeps.’

  ‘Tread on my hands.’

  This time the coughing fit was slightly more acute and was preceded by a loud snort; it was a few moments before Vespasian trusted himself to look back down at the two men and then another couple before he dared open his mouth to speak. ‘My saliva?’

  ‘Yes, Princeps. You are come from the East to save the Empire; you have the power to heal.’

  Vespasian opened his mouth but bit back a sarcastic reply; he glanced at Tiberius Alexander, his eyes questioning. The prefect nodded almost imperceptibly and Vespasian realised what was going on and knew he had to play his part to make it work. He stood and addressed the crowd cramming into the forum. ‘These men have asked me, your Emperor, to heal them. I make no claim to healing powers, nor have I made a claim to be the messiah from the East, long foretold, come to ease the cares of the world. I am a man who has risen to the Purple and no more. Should I, therefore, attempt to heal these men?’ He held an arm out, gesturing for a reply. It was affirmative and unanimous. He looked back down at the two men, their heads bowed in supplication, and then to Tiberius Alexander who gave a faint conspiratorial smile and another slow nod. ‘Very well, I shall try, but not in the sure knowledge of success.’ He sat back down. ‘Come!’

  The two men crawled to the steps, and then, with the sighted one leading, ascended them on their knees.

  ‘Come close,’ Vespasian commanded as they reached the top.

  Obedient to his word they shuffled forward; the stench of them reached Vespasian’s nostrils and his face wrinkled. ‘Take off your bandages.’

  The blind man pulled his free as his companion fumbled with the soiled rags on his han
ds and then tugged on them with his teeth.

  Vespasian leant forward to look into the blind man’s eyes; they stared, vacant, at a spot in the far distance, showing no recognition that there was anything closer. Feeling that he had nothing to lose but everything to gain, if Tiberius Alexander had really somehow managed to set this up, Vespasian spat, with great ostentation, into the palm of his hand.

  The crowd hushed, peering forward with tense anticipation.

  Vespasian presented his spittle-covered hand to them and then wiped the liquid off with his thumb. ‘Come forward, blind man.’

  The man pushed himself forward until Vespasian could reach him; this close, his stench was almost intolerable. ‘Stop.’ Holding his breath, Vespasian smeared his saliva on first one eye and then the other; not a sound could be heard in the forum. Vespasian withdrew his hand and, realising that he had to go the whole way, got again to his feet. Swallowing his revulsion, he placed his hand on the man’s head. ‘See!’

  The hush deepened.

  Vespasian released the man’s head and held a finger up before his face. The blind man turned his eyes towards it. Vespasian moved the finger left and then right; the man’s head turned back and forth, following it.

  The shocked gasp of so many thousands of onlookers felt like a physical blow to Vespasian as he helped the man up and turned him to face the crowd. ‘What do you see?’