Empire (44 page)

Lucius and Epaphroditus stood amid the crowd at the south end of the Forum. Before them, a vast flight of marble steps led up to the main entrance to the Golden House, with its highly ornamented facade of golden tiles and colored marble. Beyond the entrance, above the roofline, Lucius saw the head and shoulders of the towering Colossus of Nero, gleaming dully against the leaden December sky. The gigantic statue formed a backdrop that threw everything before it bizarrely out of scale. How small Vitellius looked, standing at the top of the steps to address the crowd, with that gigantic head looming behind him. The man who had seemed so large when Lucius encountered him in the octagonal dining room now appeared no bigger than an insect, a trifling creature that could easily be crushed on the palm of one’s hand. Even the ranks of Praetorians flanking him looked tiny.

“Look over there.” Epaphroditus pointed to a group of men in togas who had just arrived and were making their way to the front of the crowd. “See how everyone falls back to make way for them. The Flavians.”

Vespasian’s relatives were surrounded by a vast entourage of slaves, freedmen, and freeborn supporters. Their arrival elicited various emotions from the others in the Forum—fear, hope, resentment, curiosity.

“Look there, in the center,” said Epaphroditus, “the one all the others defer to, though he’s only nineteen years old—that’s Vespasian’s younger son, Domitian. The older son, Titus, is his father’s right-hand man in Judaea, but Domitian is in charge of things here in Roma.”

Lucius spotted the young man, who had the typical features of a Flavian, with his round face, prominent nose, and ruddy complexion. Domitian was notoriously vain about his luxurious head of chestnut hair, which he wore longer than was currently fashionable for young Romans. Even as Lucius watched, Domitian reached up and swept both hands through his wavy mane, combing it back, then gave a practiced toss of his head to make his tresses fall into place.

“What a preener!” Lucius laughed.

“Maybe so, but he’s a young man whose time has come. The Flavians all feel it. This is their moment.”

Apparently, not everyone in the crowd agreed. As Vitellius stepped forward to speak, voices rose from the crowd crying, “Stand firm, Caesar! Stand firm!”

The Flavians responded with their own shouts: “Abdicate! Step down! Leave the city now!”

Vitellius seemed to hesitate. Was he reconsidering his decision? He exchanged glances with Galeria, who stood nearby with little Germanicus beside her. He called Asiaticus to his side. While the two of them conferred, the competing shouts from the crowd grew louder and more vociferous.

“Step down!”

“Stay where you are!”

“Abdicate!”

“Hold firm, Caesar! Stay the course!”

Asiaticus stepped back. Vitellius still did not speak. He crossed his fleshy arms and peered down at the crowd.

“Numa’s balls, what is he waiting for?” whispered Lucius.

The shouts grew more vehement and more threatening.

“Give way to Vespasian, you fool! Get out of the city now, while you can!”

“To Hades with the Flavians! Cut off their heads and send them to Vespasian with a catapult!”

Vitellius came to a decision. He turned to Asiaticus and said something. Asiaticus turned to the prefect of the Praetorians and pointed at the Flavians in the crowd below.

“No!” whispered Epaphroditus. “This can’t be happening! What is Vitellius thinking?”

The Praetorians drew their swords and rushed down the steps. The Flavians had come prepared for a fight; almost all of them carried daggers or cudgels inside their togas. Vitellius’s supporters were also armed.

Amid the screams and shouts, Lucius and Epaphroditus looked for a way to escape, but the crowd surged around them, knocking them this way and that. They were soon separated. Screams came from all around and from underfoot: men were being trampled to death by the mob. Lucius frantically searched for Epaphroditus, without success, but some distance away he caught a glimpse of Domitian. His long hair was now in disarray, hanging in tangles over his eyes and making him look like a wild man. Domitian was shouting, but amid the uproar Lucius couldn’t make out his words. The Flavians rallied to shield him on all sides.

From the corner of his eye, Lucius caught sight of Epaphroditus, who had reached the steps of a nearby temple and was fleeing inside for safety.

He looked again at Domitian, who was waving a sword with one hand and pointing with the other. Lucius still couldn’t hear him, but the gesture was unmistakable. Domitian was signaling a retreat. The battle was going badly for the Flavians.

An elbow struck him hard in the back. Lucius staggered forward. He turned and saw Asiaticus. The man’s face was covered with blood—whether his own or someone else’s, Lucius couldn’t tell. He brandished a bloody sword.

“Either fight or get out of the way, Pinarius!”

Lucius managed to stagger to the edge of the crowd and looked up at the entrance of the Golden House. Vitellius was peering down, pressing his fingertips together as he assessed the progress of the battle. Galeria stood beside him, shaking her head. Germanicus was jumping up and down, clapping his hands in excitement.

Above and beyond them loomed the gigantic statue of Nero. Crowned by sunbeams, his face looked utterly serene.

“Do you realize where we are?” said Epictetus.

The slave stroked his long beard and gazed at the amazing collection of precious objects that cluttered the vast room—Galeria’s doing, no doubt—then limped across the black marble floor and onto the broad balcony. He shaded his eyes against the bright, milky sunlight. “This must be the place where Vitellius watched the Temple of Jupiter burn, the day he unleashed his guards on the Flavians. You can see the whole of the Capitoline Hill from here. The ruins are still smoldering.”

They were high on the Palatine Hill in a part of the imperial complex Lucius had never before visited; this wing had originally been built by Tiberius and was later refurbished and incorporated into the Golden House by Nero. Between Epaphroditus’s apartments and these chambers they had encountered not a single armed guard. Except for a few looters seen at a distance and some panic-stricken slaves, the only people they had encountered were a gang of street urchins who had broken into a storeroom and gorged themselves on Vitellius’s private stock of wine. Lucius had been briefly alarmed when the boys brandished daggers and shouted threats, then fell in a drunken heap on the floor, giggling helplessly.

Lucius and Epaphroditus joined Epictetus on the balcony. Over on the Capitoline, the columns of the Temple of Jupiter still stood, but the roof was gone and the walls had collapsed. Smoke rose from the jumble of charred beams and fallen stones.

“The Flavians thought they’d be safe there, barricaded inside with Jupiter to protect them,” said Epaphroditus. “At worst, they must have thought Vitellius would surround the temple and hold them for ransom. That would have been a logical thing for him to do, to keep Vespasian’s son and the other Flavians hostage while he bargained for his own survival. I’m sure they never imagined that Vitellius would set the temple on fire. His own men balked at the order. They say Vitellius took a torch and some kindling and started the fire himself.”

“So Vitellius did what Nero was accused of doing: he set fire to his own city!” said Lucius.

“Thank the gods the fire didn’t spread,” said Epaphroditus. “In this chaos there’d be no one to put it out. Who knows what’s become of the vigiles?”

“They’re probably rioting and looting like everyone else in the city,” said Epictetus. He reached down to rub his bad leg. It seemed to Lucius that the slave’s limp was growing worse and that he was often in pain, yet he never said a word of complaint.

Epaphroditus gazed at the ruins. “While the temple went up in flames, Vitellius came here to watch the spectacle, and enjoyed yet another banquet. The burning of the temple and the slaughter of the Flavians was just another entertainment for him. The fire went on all night, as did the screams from inside.”

“I heard Domitian was killed in the fire along with the others,” said Lucius.

“I heard otherwise,” said Epictetus. “One of Vitellius’s scribes swore to me that he saw Domitian escape from the flames disguised as a priest of Isis. The mantle of his linen robe fell back for a moment and showed his hair; that’s how the slave recognized him. But before the scribe could tell Vitellius, Domitian lost himself in the crowd, so the slave kept his mouth shut. Vitellius thinks Domitian is dead.”

“He almost certainly is,” said Epaphroditus. “I wouldn’t put much store by the scribe’s story. Disguised as a priest of Isis, indeed! It’s rather far-fetched.”

“Not as far-fetched as an emperor of Roma setting fire to the Temple of Jupiter,” said Epictetus.

To that his master had no answer.

“Vitellius must regret that decision now,” said Lucius. “What’s that line from Seneca? ‘Such a deed, once done, can never be called back.’ ”

Epaphroditus nodded. “Yesterday he sent the Vestal virgins out to meet the approaching army, to plead for peace. They came back empty-handed. Then he assembled the senators, made a tearful speech, and offered the sword of the Divine Julius to them, one by one, to show his willingness to abdicate. No one would accept it.”

“Not one of them had the courage to take that sword and put an end to Vitellius!” said Epictetus bitterly.

“Like the rest of us, the senators are waiting to see how the thing plays out,” said Epaphroditus. “The last of Vitellius’s troops have defected. He may have some supporters left, but they’re hardly better than street gangs. Vespasian’s men crossed the Milvian Bridge this morning. The advance guard must be in the city already.”

“Today is the holiday of Saturnalia,” said Lucius, “but instead of slaves and masters changing places and everyone getting stinking drunk, we have a conquering army and the lowest rabble in Roma in a competition to ransack the city. Look over there, at the shopping arcade on the far side of the Forum. You can see dead bodies in the street.”

“And a woman being raped on a rooftop,” whispered Epictetus.

“And over there, toward the Subura, some sort of street battle is going on. People are watching from the tenement windows. They’re actually cheering, as if they were spectators at a gladiator show.”

“Probably gambling on the outcome,” said Epictetus.

The view from the balcony was like a scene from a nightmare. The more they watched, the more violence and bloodshed they saw. Chaos seemed to have spread everywhere. Lucius leaned over the parapet and saw with alarm that a group of armed soldiers was directly below them.

“We should leave the Golden House,” he said. “Anyone found here will be subject to retribution from Vespasian’s troops.”

“We’ll hardly be safer in the streets,” said Epaphroditus.

“We’ll take a cue from Domitian and disguise ourselves.”

“As priests of Isis?” Epaphroditus raised an eyebrow.

“We’ll put on common tunics, to make ourselves less conspicuous.”

“I fled the Golden House once before in such a disguise, with Nero. That day had a bad ending.”

“What choice do we have? It’s madness to stay here. We’ll make our way to my family’s house on the Palatine. It’s not far. Hilarion will have barricaded the door, but we’ll find some way to get in.”

Finding tunics to wear was not difficult. Finding a way to leave the Golden House proved more challenging. Vespasian’s men seemed to have converged on all the Palatine entrances at once. From every hallway that led south, east, or west they heard shouts and sounds of fighting.

They turned and headed north, taking one flight of stairs after another, heading for the courtyard of the Colossus. If they left by the main entrance, they would almost certainly be seen when they descended the broad steps to the Forum, but Lucius hoped that amid such grand spaces three men in simple tunics might escape notice. He touched the fascinum at this throat, then tucked it inside his tunic to hide the gleam of gold.

They reached the courtyard. With the Colossus of Nero looming over them, they hurried along the covered portico to the grand vestibule. They rounded a corner, only to discover that soldiers had already arrived at the entrance.

The soldiers glanced at them but took little notice. They were busy trying to break down a small door just inside the main entrance.

“That leads to the doorkeeper’s quarters,” said Epaphroditus. “What do they want in there?”

“It’s been barricaded from the inside,” shouted one of the soldiers, reporting to a superior officer. “But my men will break down the door any moment.”

The hinges gave way. The door was pulled outward and thrown into the vestibule. Pieces of furniture—a couch, a mattress, a chair—had been stacked against it. These were pulled out into the vestibule as well. The way was clear.

The first soldier through the doorway was met by a huge dog. The snarling Molossian mastiff leaped onto the man’s chest, knocked him to the ground, and sank its fangs into his throat.

Blood was suddenly everywhere. Some of the soldiers slipped on it. The dog’s victim, unable to scream with his throat torn open, made a strange hissing sound. The growling mastiff refused to release him even when one of the soldiers poked a sword at its ribs. The officer pushed the men aside, raised his fist, and struck the dog’s head with the pommel of his sword, killing it with a single blow. The soldier on the ground was already dead.