The Furies of Rome (3 page)

Blaesus smiled, inclining his head at his pet to encourage him.

Venutius now had his back to the wall; Beauty, snarls grinding in his throat, was almost upon him. ‘I didn’t have any choice.’

‘Yes you did; you could have fled here to Rome, to your benefactor, and thrown yourself at the mercy of the Emperor. Instead you used all that newly minted money against the Emperor and now you try to blame the druids.’

With a surprisingly agile bounce, Beauty pounced on the Britannic chieftain, his snarl turning into a hunger-fired roar. Venutius screamed as he was thrown flat on his back with the monster astride him, clawing at his chest.

Sabinus got to his feet and stood over the scene from which nightmares are woven, his face unmoved by the potential horror. ‘So where did that money come from?’

‘It was a loan!’ Venutius screamed as Beauty’s jaws opened, teeth honed by bone, and his head dropped towards him.

‘And your wife’s?’

‘The same; now call this thing off!’

With a guttural rumble of satisfaction, Beauty clamped his teeth into the muscular flesh of Venutius’ pectoral and, shaking his head like a beast at its prey, began to rip at it.

With cries that would have disturbed the peace of Hades, Venutius howled for mercy, sobbing with the terror of being devoured by a thing. As Beauty’s jaws worked, so did Venutius’ shrieks increase, his fists beating uselessly on the beast’s furred back and head, his eyes looking up at Sabinus, pleading.

‘Who gave you and your wife your loans?’ Sabinus asked with an enquiring furrowing of his brow.

Beauty wrenched his head back and blood arced above it, black drops in dim light.

Venutius stared in horror at the lump of dripping meat dangling from the hideous, masticating jaws. His eyes rolled as he watched Beauty chewing on his own precious flesh; then he screamed once, even louder than previously: ‘Seneca!’

CHAPTER I

S
HE WAS DYING;
there was no doubt about it in Vespasian’s mind as he looked down at his mother, Vespasia Polla. Late afternoon light, seeping through the narrow window above her bed, illumined the small bedroom, simply furnished, that was to act as the starting point for Vespasia’s last journey. Her face, with skin the texture and hue of wrinkled tallow wax, was peaceful: her eyes were shut, her thin lips, dry and cracked, trembled apart with each irregular breath and her long, undressed grey hair lay spread upon the pillow, arranged so by one of her body slaves in order that there would still be feminine dignity in death.

Vespasian increased slightly the pressure on the frail hand that he held in both of his as he said a prayer to his guardian god, Mars, that the messenger he had sent to Rome had made good time and his brother and uncle would arrive before she had need of the Ferryman’s services; he promised a white bullock to the deity should this be so.

Vespasian felt a hand on his shoulder; he looked up to see Flavia, his wife of nineteen years, standing next to him.

His prayer had been so intense that she had entered the room without his noticing. Her make-up and jewellery were lavish and extensive; they were complemented by a high and ornate coiffeur and a crimson stola and saffron palla of the finest wool that allowed her comely form to be admired. Vespasian felt a twinge of annoyance at his wife for coming into a dying-chamber dressed as if she were about to entertain guests of the highest rank, but refrained from saying anything as he knew that dressing down would never have occurred to Flavia; instead he focused on family matters: ‘Are the boys still out with Magnus and his new hunting dogs?’

‘Titus is but Domitian came back with one of the hunting slaves half an hour ago sulking because Magnus had stopped him from doing something; what, I don’t know. He then pinched and scratched his sister.’

‘Domitilla’s had worse from him.’

‘She’s twice his age and soon to be married; she shouldn’t have to take that from a child of seven. I’ve given him to his nurse, Phyllis, she can restrain him, and I’ve promised him that you’ll give him the thrashing of his life once …’ Flavia trailed off knowing exactly what was preventing her husband from disciplining their youngest son immediately. ‘May Mother Isis ease her passing. Shall I send for the doctors again?’

Vespasian shook his head. ‘What can they do? Cutting out the swelling in her stomach will kill her quicker than leaving it in. Besides, she sent them away last time.’

Flavia could not resist a snort. ‘She always thought that she knew best.’

Vespasian gritted his teeth. ‘If you insist on carrying on a pointless feud with a dying woman, Flavia, it would be better to do so in the privacy of your own room and your own head. I am not in the mood, nor do I have the time, for women’s petty quarrels.’

Flavia tensed and took her hand from Vespasian’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, husband, I meant no disrespect.’

‘Yes you did.’ Vespasian returned his concentration to his mother as his wife left the room at an irritated pace; her footsteps faded into the courtyard garden beyond.

For a few days over forty-nine years now, Vespasia Polla had been a part of his life and, as he again squeezed her hand, he thanked her, for he knew that neither he nor his brother would have reached the consulship had it not been for her drive and ambition for her family. His father’s side of the family were respectable, rustic equestrians; Sabine in ancestry and accent.
Vespasia, however, came from a family that could boast a senator who had reached the rank of praetor: her older brother, Gaius Vespasius Pollo. It had been that connection she had used to launch the career of her sons in Rome and it had been Gaius’ relationship with the Lady Antonia, niece to Augustus, sister-in-law
to Tiberius, mother of Claudius, grandmother of Caligula and great-grandmother of Nero, that had propelled them into the mire of imperial politics in which they had managed to swim not sink – just. Both had reached the pinnacle of the Cursus Honorum, the succession of military and magisterial ranks that were the career structure for the
é
lite in Rome, which was far more than most New Men from non-senatorial families could expect; indeed, Sabinus had progressed from the consulship to being a provincial governor and was now the prefect of the city of Rome. Yes, Vespasian reflected, rubbing the thin crown of hair that was all that remained on his otherwise bald head, Vespasia could be proud of her achievement for her family.

Yet there was one thing that she had left undone in Vespasian’s eyes: she was going to her grave with a secret; a secret almost as old as him. That secret had been enforced by an oath administered, at Vespasia’s insistence, to all who had been a witness to the incident – Sabinus, aged almost five, included. It had occurred at Vespasian’s naming ceremony, nine days after his birth and it had to do with the markings on the livers of the sacrificial ox, boar and ram; what these markings were, no one had been able to tell him because of the oath. He knew, though, that his parents had believed the marks prophesied his future for he had overheard them discussing it, in vague terms, as a youth of sixteen; but what was prophesied, he knew not. And now his mother was going to the shaded land beyond the Styx without releasing people from that oath. However, due to certain strange occurrences and prophecies that Vespasian had been subject to throughout his life, he had formed a reasonable idea of what the omens may have predicted for him all those years ago; and it was an idea that was as outrageous as it was implausible with the political settlement as it was and the Principate in the hands of one family.

But, should that line fail, what then? If the Emperor were to die childless whence would a new emperor come?

It had been to this end that Vespasian had been instrumental in bringing about a state of war, still continuing, between Rome
and Parthia over the nominally autonomous kingdom of Armenia.
The war was seen by the powers behind the throne as a good thing to help secure the young Emperor Nero’s position and Vespasian wanted Nero’s position to be secure; he wanted Nero to rule for some time because he had a suspicion, no, it was more than a suspicion, it was a feeling bordering on certainty, that Nero would run to excesses that would make the depravities of his predecessors seem as mere foibles to be shrugged off with indulgence. If that were to be the case then Vespasian doubted that Rome would tolerate another emperor from the same unstable family. And so to whom would Rome look to fill that position? The candidate would have to be of consular rank with a proven military record and there were many men in Rome like that, Vespasian included; but, Vespasian had reasoned, if it were
to be someone like him then why not him?

And that was what Vespasia was taking to her grave: the confirmation, or not, of Vespasian’s suspicions; and he knew that even if she did regain consciousness he would never be able to get her to change her mind.

‘Master?’ A voice intruded into his inner thoughts.

Vespasian turned; his slave stood silhouetted in the doorway. ‘What is it, Hormus?’

‘Pallo sent me to tell you that your brother has arrived.’

‘Thank Mars for that. Have our finest white bullock prepared for sacrifice as soon as Sabinus and my uncle have seen my mother.’

‘Your uncle, master?’

‘Yes.’

‘There must be a misunderstanding; it’s just your brother arriving, your uncle is not with him.’

Although the atrium of the main house on the Flavian estate at Aquae Cutillae benefited from the underfloor heating of a hypocaust and, despite a raging log fire in the hearth, the chamber still felt chill after the warmth of Vespasia’s dying-chamber. Vespasian rubbed his arms as he followed Hormus across the floor, decorated with a pastoral mosaic illustrating the various ways that the family supported itself through working the land. Before they reached the front door, Pallo, the aged estate steward, came in from outside and held it open for Sabinus, dusty and dishevelled from travel.

‘Is she still here?’ Sabinus asked without any pleasantries.

Vespasian turned and fell in step with his brother. ‘Just.’

‘Well, just is good enough. I don’t think I’ve ever made the journey from Rome in such quick time.’

‘Did you leave Uncle Gaius behind you on the road?’

Sabinus shook his head as they passed through the
tablinum
, the study at the far end of the atrium, and then on out into the courtyard garden. ‘I’m afraid not; he wasn’t well enough to make the journey.’

‘What’s the matter with him?’

Sabinus looked at his brother as they paused outside Vespasia’s room, his eyes full of concern; although whether that was due to their mother’s imminent death or their uncle’s illness, Vespasian could not tell. ‘I’ll tell you after we’ve watched Mother …’ He left the sentence unfinished; they were both only too well aware of what they were going to watch their mother do.

Vespasian opened the door and allowed Sabinus to step in first; as Vespasian followed, Vespasia surprised them both by opening her eyes. Her lips twitched into a weak smile. ‘My boys,’ she croaked, ‘I knew that I would see you both together before the end.’

The brothers went to her bedside, Sabinus taking the chair and Vespasian standing at his shoulder.

Vespasia reached out a hand to each of her sons. ‘I’m proud of your achievements for our family; the house of Flavius is now a name to be remembered.’ She paused for a couple of uneven, wheezed breaths, her eyes flickering between open and closed; neither Vespasian nor Sabinus attempted to interrupt her. ‘But it does not stop here, my sons; Mars has spoken. Sabinus, I’ve left a letter for you safe in Pallo’s care; take it, read it and act upon it when you see fit.’ Another struggle for breath made the siblings hold theirs until she managed to carry on: ‘Although I won’t release you from the oath you made all those years ago, the secondary oath that your father made you both swear, not just before Mars but before all of the gods including Mithras, to help each other does, as he rightly claimed, supersede it should it become necessary.’ Her hands squeezed those of her sons as her frail frame was wracked by a series of coughs, each more rasping than the previous.

Vespasian raised a cup of water to her lips and she drank, immediately gaining relief.

‘And it will become necessary, Sabinus,’ Vespasia continued, her voice markedly weaker. ‘Because you will need to guide your brother.’ She fixed her watery eyes on Vespasian. ‘And you, Vespasian, will need to be guided. Indecision could be fatal.’

‘I believe that I know the contents of the prophecy, Mother,’ Vespasian ventured. ‘It’s that—’

‘Don’t try to guess, Vespasian,’ Vespasia cut in, her voice now barely more than a whisper. ‘And certainly never make your thoughts public; indeed, the fact that there were portentous omens at your naming ceremony should never even be admitted outside the family. You may think that you can guess at the meaning, but I tell you, you can’t. There were three livers, three different signs; I’ve written them all down in Sabinus’ letter to refresh his mind as he was so young at the time.’ Her eyes closed with the effort of speech, but she pressed on. ‘It’s what, when and, most importantly, how.’

‘Then tell me now, Mother.’

Vespasia seemed to consider that for a few moments as she laboured to draw more breaths. ‘To do that would be to tempt the gods. For a man to know the exact course, timing and mode of his destiny would mean that his decisions would be shaped by something other than his own desires and fears; it would unbalance him and ultimately bring him down. A prophecy made is not necessarily a prophecy completed.’

‘I know,’ Vespasian said, thinking back to what Myrddin, the immortal druid of Britannia, had said to him when he had tried to kill him. ‘A man can always accept death voluntarily.’

‘A man can also push too hard for the fulfilment of a prophecy. By trying to make it so he can alter the timeframe so that the various factors that are needed to bring it about are no longer in conjunction and so therefore the whole thing can never be. I made all the witnesses swear that oath for two reasons: firstly so that it would never reach the ears of those who would jealously guard their position and, secondly, to prevent you from knowing the details in order that you would always follow your instincts rather than a course that you thought had been fabricated for you; that way would have ended in failure and death.’ Vespasia opened her eyes, the strain of her many words showing in them and telling also in the shallowness of her breathing. ‘What you may suspect will come to pass may indeed be so, Vespasian; but it’s Sabinus who holds the key as to how and when. And to prevent you from acting precipitously he will guard that knowledge until such time that he deems you ready to receive it, using the oath that your father made you swear to each other. You are bound together now, my sons; now that I am gone, only between the two of you will you have the power to make this family one of the great families of Rome.’

Vespasia’s eyes ranged slowly from one son to the other and, as the siblings met her gaze, they both bowed their heads in acknowledgement of her wishes; whilst they did so they felt her grip on their hands strengthen a fraction and then release. When they raised their heads again, they met with the blank eyes of the corpse that had been their mother.

‘I’ll not! I’ll not go! She was never nice to me.’ Domitian faced his parents, standing in the tablinum, looking up at them, defiant, his fists clenched, ready to strike. Phyllis, his nursemaid, stood behind him with a hand on each of his shoulders.

‘You mean she tried to discipline you,’ Vespasian said, attempting to keep his voice level in the face of such insubordination from his youngest son, ‘which is exactly what I will do if you refuse to go and pay your respects to the body of your grandmother.’