Daughters of Rome (52 page)

Diana shrugged her angular shoulders. “Come to the races today,” she suggested. “The Reds are forever.”

Unlike emperors.

Historically, Emperor Vespasian did not enter Rome until late in the year following his coup—but I couldn’t resist the temptation of letting the readers see the face of the man who finally ended the madness of the Year of the Four Emperors. Vespasian was shrewd, humorous, sensible, and intelligent, and his reign ushered in an era of much-needed peace for Rome. He was followed by his brilliant son Titus and eventually his second son, Domitian, who proved less popular—but that is a story for another book, one titled
Mistress of Rome
.

Most of this book’s main events—Galba’s death, Piso’s murder at the Temple of Vesta, Otho’s speech and suicide after the battle of Bedriacum, Vitellius’s love of food and of the Blues, the riots in Rome, Domitian’s elopement with a married woman—are true to history, and so are many of the characters in
Daughters of Rome
. Domitia, daughter of the famous historical general Gnaeus Corbulo and renamed here as Marcella, will go on after her scandalous elopement to a grim two decades as Domitian’s wife; he eventually came to hate her, but never relinquished his hold on Marcella/Domitia. Her sister Cornelia, Corbulo’s elder daughter (also called Domitia, and renamed by me for clarity), is only a shadowy figure in history and disappears into domestic anonymity. Her marriage to Piso Licinianus is my own invention, though the historical Piso did exist and was murdered by Praetorians, who took his head to show the new Emperor and later sold it back to Piso’s family. Centurion Densus of the Praetorian Guard also existed, though history records that he died the night of Galba’s assassination in a fruitless attempt to save Piso’s life. It seemed an unfair end for a brave and loyal soldier, so I let him survive in
Daughters of Rome
to attain a happier ending.

Lollia is a fictional character, but her husbands were real to history—Titus Flavius as Vespasian’s splendid soldier son, Senator Vinius as Galba’s right-hand man, Salvius Titianus as Emperor Otho’s inoffensive brother, and Fabius Valens as Vitellius’s ruthless kingmaker were all real men and had the fates described here. Valens’s counterpart Caecina Alienus is a historical figure as well; he did turn traitor after being appointed commander of Vitellius’s armies when a temporary illness laid Fabius Valens low. He was rewarded for his treachery but was eventually executed some years later for trying to betray yet another emperor. Lollia’s daughter Flavia Domitilla was also a real figure, though historically she was Titus’s niece rather than his daughter. Both Flavia and Titus’s daughter Julia grew up to endure tragedy and adventure under the reign of their uncle Domitian.

Diana is also a fictional character, but Llyn ap Caradoc was possibly real. His father, Caradoc, or Caratacus, was a formidable warrior in Britain whose rebellion against Rome is well documented. He was eventually captured along with his family (some accounts mention daughters; some mention a son possibly named Linus or Llyen or Llyn), and they were all taken to Rome and pardoned. They disappear from history at that point, but I always wondered what happened to Caratacus and his family. His son, if he had one, would have been a vigorous young warrior forced to live most of his life among enemies he hated. The historical Caratacus never escaped captivity—history would have recorded that—but
Daughters of Rome
allowed me to hope that at least his son might have one day returned home.

The Roman chariot races that take up so much of Diana and Llyn’s time are depicted as accurately as possible. Successful charioteers attained celebrity status in ancient Rome, and many young patrician men drove in the great circuses—though never any women, to my knowledge. The rivalry between the four racing factions was vicious: think Red Sox/Yankees.

The Year of Four Emperors proved cataclysmic to the Roman people. There had been coups before, but always with at least a pretense of legality. The year 69 was the first time the Empire went up for grabs to any usurper with an army, profoundly shocking a nation that had existed many centuries as a Republic. A period of relative stability would follow with Vespasian and his heirs, but Rome would never be quite so secure again from ambitious usurpers. A new era had dawned.

Tullia,
his wife

Senator
Marcus Norbanus,
cousin to the
Cornelii, Tullia
’s first husband

*Cornelia
Prima, Gaius
’s eldest sister

*
Cornelia Secunda,
called
Marcella
,
Gaius
’s second sister

Cornelia Tertia,
called
Lollia
, a first cousin

Cornelia Quarta,
called
Diana
, a first cousin

*
Servius Sulpicius
Galba

*
Marcus Salvius
Otho

*Aulus
Vitellius

*Titus Flavius
Vespasian

 

I
opened my wrist with one firm stroke of the knife, watching with interest as the blood leaped out of the vein. My wrists were latticed with knife scars, but I still found the sight of my own blood fascinating. There was always the element of danger: After so many years, would I finally get careless and cut too deep? Would this be the day I watched my young life stream away into the blue pottery bowl with the nice frieze of nymphs on the side? The thought much brightened a life of minimum excitement.

But this time it was not to be. The first leap of blood slowed to a trickle, and I settled back against the mosaic pillar in the atrium, blue bowl in my lap. Soon a pleasant haze would descend over my eyes and the world would take on an agreeably distant hue. I needed that haze today. I would be accompanying my new mistress to the Colosseum, to see the gladiatorial games for the accession of the new Emperor. And from what I’d heard about the games . . .

“Thea!”

My mistress’s voice. I muttered something rude in a combination of Greek, Hebrew, and gutter Latin, none of which she understood.

The blue bowl held a shallow cup of my blood. I wrapped my wrist in a strip of linen, tying off the knot with my teeth, then emptied the bowl into the atrium fountain. I took care not to drip on my brown wool tunic. My mistress’s eagle eyes would spot a bloodstain in half a second, and I would not care to explain to her exactly why, once or twice a month, I took a blue bowl with a nice frieze of nymphs on the side and filled it with my own blood. However, fairly speaking, there was very little that I would care to tell my mistress at all. She hadn’t owned me long, but I already knew
that
.

“Thea!”

I turned too quickly, and had to lean against the pillars of the atrium. Maybe I’d overdone it. Drain too much blood, and nausea set in. Surely not good on a day when I would have to watch thousands of animals and men get slaughtered.

“Thea, quit dawdling.” My mistress poked her pretty head out the bedroom door, her annoyed features agreeably hazy to my eyes. “Father’s waiting, and you still have to dress me.”

I drifted obediently after her, my feet seeming to float several inches above the floor. A tasteless floor with a mosaic scene of gladiators fighting it out with tridents, blood splashing copiously in square red tiles. Tasteless but appropriate: My mistress’s father, Quintus Pollio, was one of several organizers of the Imperial gladiatorial games.

“The blue gown, Thea. With the pearl pins at the shoulders.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Lady Lepida Pollia. I had been purchased for her several months ago when she turned fourteen: a maid of her own age to do her hair and carry her fan now that she was so nearly a woman. As a gift I didn’t rank as high as the pearl necklace and the silver bangles and the half-dozen silk gowns she’d also received from her doting father, but she certainly liked having her own personal shadow.

“Cut yourself at dinner again, Thea?” She caught sight of my bandaged wrist at once. “You really are a fumble-fingers. Just don’t drop my jewel box, or I’ll be very cross. Now, I want the gold bands in my hair, in the Greek style. I’ll be a Greek for the day . . . just like you, Thea.”

She knew I was no Greek, despite the name bestowed on me by the Athenian merchant who was my first owner. “Yes, my lady,” I murmured in my purest Greek. A frown flickered between her fine black brows. I was better educated than my mistress, and it annoyed her no end. I tried to remind her at least once a week.

“Don’t go giving yourself airs, Thea. You’re just another little Jew slave. Remember that.”

“Yes, my lady.” Meekly I coiled and pinned her curls. She was already chattering on.

“. . . Father says that Belleraphon will fight this afternoon. Really, I know he’s our best gladiator, but that flat face! He may dress like a dandy, but all the perfume in the world won’t turn him into an Apollo. Of course he is wonderfully graceful, even when he’s sticking someone right through the throat—ouch! You pricked me!”

“Sorry, my lady.”

“You certainly look green. There’s no reason to get sick over the games, you know. Gladiators and slaves and prisoners—they’d all die anyway. At least this way we get some fun out of it.”

“Maybe it’s my Jewish blood,” I suggested. “We don’t usually find death amusing.”

“Maybe that’s it.” Lepida examined her varnished nails. “At least the games are bound to be thrilling today. What with the Emperor getting sick and dying in the middle of the season, we haven’t had a good show for months.”

“Inconsiderate of him,” I agreed.

“At least the new Emperor is supposed to love the games. Emperor Domitian. Titus Flavius Domitianus . . . I wonder what he’ll be like? Father went to no end of trouble arranging the best bouts for him. Pearl earrings, Thea.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And the musk perfume. There.” Lepida surveyed herself in the polished steel mirror. She was very young—fourteen, same as me—and too young, really, for the rich silk gown, the pearls, the rouge. But she had no mother and Quintus Pollio, so shrewd in dealing with slave merchants and
lanistae
, was clay in the hands of his only child. Besides, there was no doubt that she cut a dash. Her beauty was not in the peacock-blue eyes or even the yard of silky black hair that was her pride and joy. It was in her Olympian poise. On the basis of that poise, Lady Lepida Pollia aimed to catch a distinguished husband, a patrician who would raise the family Pollii at last into the highest ranks of Roman society.

She beckoned me closer, peacock fan languidly stirring her sculpted curls. In the mirror behind her I was a dark-brown shadow: lanky where she was luscious, sunburned where she was white-skinned, drab where she was brilliant. Very flattering, at least for her.

“Most effective,” she announced, mirroring my thoughts. “But you really do need a new dress, Thea. You look like a tall dead tree. Come along, Father’s waiting.”

Father was indeed waiting. But his impatience softened as Lepida dimpled at him and pirouetted girlishly. “Yes, you look very pretty. Be sure to smile at Aemilius Graccus today; that’s a very important family, and he’s got an eye for pretty girls.”

I could have told him that it wasn’t pretty
girls
Aemilius Graccus had an eye for, but he didn’t ask me. Maybe he should have. Slaves heard everything.

Most Romans had to get up at daybreak to get a good seat in the Colosseum. But the Pollio seats were reserved, so we tripped out just fashionably late enough to nod at all the great families. Lepida sparkled at Aemilius Graccus, at a party of patrician officers lounging on the street corner, at anyone with a purple-bordered toga and an old name. Her father importantly exchanged gossip with any patrician who favored him with an obligatory smile.