The Furies of Rome (19 page)

On his brother’s face, Vespasian saw the fear that all in Rome’s
é
lite felt; the fear of Nero. The fear that preyed on one’s mind, day in and day out, ever present, ever gnawing, clouding one’s judgement and preventing coherent thought. ‘What will you do?’

Sabinus took a deep breath. ‘What can I do but carry on in my duty, waiting to see what happens?’ Taking Vespasian by surprise, he squeezed his shoulder in the first ever physical show of fraternal affection.

Vespasian mirrored the gesture, holding his brother’s gaze for a few moments.

With a resigned smile, Sabinus walked back to his desk to disappear in amongst a swarm of petitioners all insisting that theirs was the most pressing problem. Vespasian turned and headed on through Caesar’s Forum cursing Nero and those who supported him in power; those men who were responsible for the intolerable way that people of his class were forced to live. Once again the
é
lite of Rome were in the savage grip of a monster who knew no limits to his power and enjoyed searching for them. It was intolerable and surely it could not continue thus? Yet, as Vespasian walked through the Gate of Fontus, under the shadow of the Capitoline Hill, and out onto the Campus Martius, he could see no escape from Nero short of his assassination and then who would take his place? There were no direct male descendants of the Julio-Claudian line left and Nero himself was, as yet, childless.

So what would happen if men like Piso and Rufus gathered malcontents in a successful conspiracy against Nero? The answer was obvious to Vespasian: there would be a rush to claim the Purple by the generals in the field; those men lucky enough to have the command of legions. And of them there was one stand-out candidate after his recent despatches to the Senate: Corbulo. Corbulo with the Syrian legions behind him and his kudos high, having won glory first in Germania and then in Armenia, would be foolish if he did not make a bid for empire. The Egyptian legions and the Moesian would rally to him making him the king of the East. Suetonius Paulinus in Britannia could not oppose him without losing the new province and the Governors of the two Germanias would not be able to agree as to which of them should receive the backing of their legions, so the legions themselves would more than likely back the man who had commanded many of them to victories only a few years previously. How could anyone compete with Corbulo’s record?

A bitter smile crossed Vespasian’s face as he remembered thinking at his mother’s deathbed:
if it were to be someone like him then why not him?

No, it was not to be him; Corbulo was the best and obvious choice and Corbulo could do it, Vespasian was now convinced of that. And that thought sealed Vespasian’s conviction that he was doomed as he mounted the steps of the Temple of Neptune His mother, indeed, his whole family, had been mistaken about the prophecy and he cringed inwardly at the thought that he could ever have considered entertaining such grandiose ambitions for himself.

‘Ah, there you are at last.’ Nero’s voice was husky from much talk already that morning; he was accompanied by a couple of dozen senators whom, apart from Caratacus, Vespasian recognised as being mostly the same men as witnessed Agrippina’s last supper. ‘I hope you brought the money.’

‘The money, Princeps?’

‘Of course, the twelve thousand.’ Nero looked at him as if he were being deliberately obtuse.

Vespasian felt his knees buckle; he stumbled, saving himself from crashing to the floor by supporting his weight on the plinth of a statue of the host deity. His head span and he sucked in a couple of quick, deep breaths as he realised what all this was about and the relevance of meeting in the Temple of Neptune, the god, amongst other things, of horses. All that anguish had been over a chariot race, a race he was obliged to lose and with it twelve thousand denarii. ‘It’s lodged with the Cloelius Brothers in the Forum,’ he improvised.

‘Good, you can pick it up after the race.’

Vespasian noticed that Nero had made no mention of where his twelve thousand was lodged, no doubt because he did not expect to lose as he never had.

Nero peered at him. ‘Are you feeling all right? I don’t want you saying that you lost because you were ill as we know that wouldn’t be true.’

Vespasian felt his equilibrium returning and took on his most sincere expression as he looked up at the Emperor. ‘I’m fine, Princeps; it’s just … er … nerves at competing with someone of your talent; I always get them.’

‘Of course you do. We’ll sacrifice a bull to Neptune Equester before going to my circus on the Vatican. All my teams are waiting there for you to choose your favourite. Your Arabs are being fetched from the Greens’ stables at the moment.’

‘Very good, Princeps; I am honoured that you should go to such trouble on my behalf.’

‘It’s for everyone here, Vespasian.’ Nero gestured with an arm around the chamber to include all within. ‘I intend to show people just what can be achieved by a man of my skill driving a less-favoured team against my best team driven by a man of your meagre accomplishment.’

There were sage nods and murmurs of impatience from the assembled senators, all of whom, like Nero, chose to ignore the fact that Vespasian’s Arabs were one of the most successful teams in Rome.

But then, Vespasian reflected, that was all part of the delusion.

Vespasian had never seen all of Nero’s racehorses assembled together before; lined up in one long row they were an impressive sight. However, as he moved along the teams of varying coats and builds he saw nothing that could compare to his Arabs who, having arrived, stood opposite the parade, observing without a great deal of interest.

‘Would you like some advice?’ a voice asked from behind his right shoulder.

Vespasian turned to see Caratacus. ‘You’re here to witness Nero’s triumph on the track too, are you?’

The former Britannic chieftain smiled. ‘Who would wish to miss the opportunity to witness a master-class in charioteering? But I got the impression that it wasn’t what
you
were expecting when you entered the temple.’

Vespasian stroked the muzzle of a chestnut mare before moving on to an all-black team. ‘I thought I was coming to be condemned; I know I didn’t hide my relief very well when I realised that the worst that was going to happen today was to lose twelve thousand denarii to Nero.’

‘I won’t ask what’s on your conscience; but I would say that losing twelve thousand is a lot better than losing your life. It must be your lucky day.’

Vespasian smiled as he moved on to a team of greys. ‘That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. Another way is … well, it’s best not to say anything about he who weighs us down with constant fear.’

‘A policy that I too follow; especially as I’m making every effort to ingratiate myself with our multi-talented Emperor.’

‘Oh, why so?’

‘Well, apart from the usual reasons, he is in the process of considering appointing me as king of the eastern client kingdom in Britannia after the legions pull out.’

‘Pull out? Nero’s not serious, is he?’

They carried on walking down the line of horseflesh examining muscle tone and hoofs. ‘Yes, he is; the freedman Epaphroditus, Nero’s new secretary, approached me about it yesterday. His belief is that if Suetonius Paulinus can destroy the druids on Mona and kill Myrddin himself then an honourable peace can be achieved. That’s what Venutius’ release was about, to send him back to Britannia, in the Emperor’s debt, and use him as a counter to his ex-wife’s ambitions; either he or she will have the northern kingdom, Cogidubnus will be king in the south and either Prasutagus of the Iceni or myself will get the east. But seeing as Prasutagus is in increasingly poor health and with only a wife and daughters to inherit from him, I think that I should be in luck.’

‘So he would restore you to the Catuvellauni throne and everything will be as it was before.’ Vespasian had completed his inspection of the teams and doubled back to four bays that had caught his eye. ‘Who else knows this?’

‘Just Seneca at the moment. Nero’s made his final decision, but is yet to make the announcement; that won’t happen until next year when the legions begin to withdraw. What a waste of blood the whole exercise would have been once he does pull out.’

‘We should never have gone in in the first place. Augustus always maintained that your fog-bound island was not worth even one drop of legionary blood; it was just selfish politics that caused it.’

‘And now it’s selfish politics that ends it, so that Nero has more money to spend; did you see his new baths that he’s constructing next to Agrippa’s old ones?’

Vespasian had passed the building site on his way to the Vatican. ‘The finest of everything, Nero boasted as we went past; not at all cheap.’

‘But cheaper than maintaining four legions and their auxiliaries in Britannia.’

Vespasian had made his choice. ‘I shall take these, Princeps,’ he called to Nero.

Nero looked pleased. ‘A fine choice, Vespasian; we shall prepare.’

‘It was a good choice,’ Caratacus affirmed, ‘they might have a chance of beating your Arabs; not that you would let them, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’ Vespasian looked Caratacus in the eye. ‘If Nero did make you Rome’s client king, would you stay loyal?’

Caratacus inclined his head a fraction. ‘Technically, yes, just so that Rome had no reason to come back. As you say, things would go back to how they were before the invasion. We would still trade with the Empire; we would still be at peace with the Empire and we would still send our sons to Rome for education. The only difference would be that we’d go back to fighting amongst ourselves, otherwise we’d get bored.’ Caratacus grinned and slapped Vespasian on the shoulder. ‘Good luck losing your race.’

‘Thank you, my friend; and good luck winning your kingdom.’

Vespasian steadied his team, with the reins wrapped round his waist, as they waited on the starting line in front of the circus gates, about fifty paces from the start of the spina. Unlike the Circus Maximus, Nero’s circus did not have starting boxes; the race, therefore, would start at the drop of Nero’s handkerchief, which, seeing as Nero had already taken his team up to a canter and was now ten lengths away, seemed delayed. Vespasian waited, trying not to think about the money.

As Nero neared the spina he dropped the handkerchief; Vespasian whipped his team forward and enjoyed the surge of energy created by the four bays as they eagerly accelerated after the Arabs. From the small group of spectators there were cheers of varying enthusiasm, more because they felt that it was expected of them rather than for any tension or excitement generated in a race whose conclusion was in no doubt.

But Vespasian was not going to trail meekly behind the Emperor, shadowing him in the fifteen-length lead that he had given himself by his blatant cheating; no, the contempt he felt for that pathetic manoeuvre of Nero’s had decided him to make a race of it and then to lose in the last lap. He cracked the whip over the withers of his team and screamed encouragement at them as they stretched their necks, their nostrils flaring and their eyes wild. On Vespasian urged them up the track, towards the first turn, spitting out the dust kicked up by Nero as he yelled and bawled. Despite the fact that he was only an amateur, he knew well enough how to handle a team he had never driven before, and he quickly had them in hand so that they worked and responded as one. By the time Nero had rounded the far end of the spina, Vespasian had almost halved the lead, whooping and grinning broadly as the wind pulled at his tunic and flicked grains of sand into his face. With the deft tugs on the reins that he had learnt to perfect in the past years, he slowed the team in precise order so that they glided with grace around the turning stone placed at the extreme of the spina.

Brandishing the four-lash whip and shaking the reins, he pressed his team on to greater efforts and, coming out of the turn exactly in line with their hoofs beating virtually in time, they shot forward, each free to exert itself to the utmost, unimpeded by its fellows. Down came the distance between him and Nero and, in inverse proportion, up went the volume from the few senators and stable hands watching.

They were willing him on to win, he was sure of it; although it could never really be proven that they had not been cheering for Nero.

But Vespasian, despite his excitement, was not about to oblige them with a victory. Yet still he gained on the Emperor and, as the first of the seven bronze dolphins dipped its nose and the second lap began, Vespasian was less than ten lengths behind. Up the back straight they surged, Nero whipping his Arabs and casting glances over his shoulder, paying little heed to the performance of his team, which had now begun to lose the rhythm that a successful combination so needed if they were to be able to act in unison. Vespasian continued to chase down Nero as they approached the far turn for the second time; the Arabs bundled round, the light chariot slewing behind them, spraying sand up at forty-five degrees in a great arc before just righting itself. Without any thought for harmony between beasts and vehicle, Nero whipped his team on, looking nervously behind. His wheels bounced once and then twice, up off the track, as the team accelerated without the chariot being in perfect alignment; but as Vespasian came out of the turn, now just seven lengths behind, Nero’s vehicle was running smoothly once more.

Vespasian felt the joy of the chase well up within him, and the fear of Nero that dwelt in the hearts of every one of his subjects seemed to dissipate as he slowly gained on the Emperor, who had now let his Arabs’ discipline degenerate to the extent that their heads were all moving in different times.

On they powered, Vespasian’s bays, eating up the lead that his own Arabs, being so inexpertly handled, could not hope to maintain, despite the serious whipping that Nero was administering. They thundered past Caligula’s obelisk at the halfway point of the straight and careered on towards the second turning stone. Nero, once again, glanced backwards and then thrashed his whip cruelly down onto the Arabs’ withers as they went into the turn. The outside horse gave a shrill whinny and leapt forward as if it were attempting to jump a fence as its team mates curved off to the left, around the hundred and eighty degree turn; their weight pulled their airborne companion around with them but not so as it could keep its footing.