Nero's Heirs (33 page)

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the old centurion's.

'He was one of ours,' he said, 'the dirty brute.'

'Was this what you joined the army for?' I said.

His blue eyes were bloodshot.

That's not a question I would care to put to myself.'

A young soldier ran up and, to my amazement, saluted the centurion.

Word is, sir,' he said, 'they've surrendered at the Praetorian camp.' 'Word may be so,' the centurion said. 'But I wouldn't wager on it if I was you, laddie.' He turned to me.

You'll know the palace, sir,' he said, 'seeing as you were on Otho's staff. Poor bugger, this sort of day was what he killed himself to prevent. But, knowing the palace as you do, what say we go there in search of that bastard Vitellius? It wouldn't do us any harm to be the ones to arrest him.'

As a child, and into adolescence, I had a recurrent dream. I found myself abandoned in a great house. The first room was full of beautiful objects and fine statues which nevertheless alarmed me, for they seemed to move whenever my eyes turned away from them. Then I was led, by some force I did not recognise but was powerless to resist, through a succession of rooms, each one more meanly furnished than the one I had just left. And, as I moved, I heard heavy footsteps, as if of walking stones, behind me. At last, I passed through a long chamber where dust lay thick on the floor and cobwebs hung from the cornices. At the end of the chamber was a heavy metal-studded door which would not yield to me. The iron key, big as a man's hand, would not turn, and I pressed against the door as the footsteps approached ever nearer, and mocking laughter filled the empty air.

Now the dream was made real. The imperial palace, thronged with soldiers, officials, secretaries, clients, freedmen, slaves, only a few days previously, now stood deserted, silent as the grave, but for the distant murmur from the city below. We passed through the rooms, silently, as if in awe. We were not the first comers. Other soldiers had been here before us. There were signs of looting - chests overturned or ransacked, hangings torn from the walls, plinths that no longer supported busts, broken pottery, empty wine-flasks. In one room, where perhaps the men had expressed their contempt for the broken Emperor, there was an acrid stench of urine. In another a slave lay with his throat cut. Perhaps he had returned, or lingered, in search of loot, and his prize had been torn from his hands by the soldiers who had discovered him.

The Emperor's personal apartments had suffered most. There was not a piece of furniture that stood undamaged. Chests had been ransacked; those contents which were not prized were scattered over the floor. The wall-paintings were defaced. A pile of shit stood in one corner of his bedchamber.

We're too late,' the old centurion said. The other buggers have got him.'

'I think not,' I replied, 'it's impossible we shouldn't have encountered them, or at least have heard the cries of the mob that must accompany Vitellius' appearance. He may not be here. He may not even have been here lately. But he hasn't been taken here, I'm sure of that.'

A couple of soldiers now came up to us, dragging a thin whimpering boy between them.

'Found him in the kitchens, sir. Says he's a pastry-cook.'

He thrust his sword-point under the boy's chin.

Tell the officer what you told me.'

The story, emerging in frightened gasps, amidst pleas for mercy, was simple. Vitellius had indeed left the palace, being carried in a litter to his father-in-law's house on the Aventine. That had been the intention. But he had come back, the boy didn't know why. That was when he had concealed himself, because he'd nowhere else to go. He was a slave, without family. Where was there a refuge for the likes of him? So he'd hidden in the meat-press in the kitchen. The last he'd seen of the Emperor was the litter returning up the hill to the palace.

'Let him go,' the centurion said. 'He's harmless.'

The boy threw a wild look, and scurried out of sight.

A dog howled, somewhere in the recesses of the back quarters.

It howled again.

We went in the direction of the sound. We followed the twists of the corridors in the gloom of advancing night. It would be quite dark in a few minutes and we had no torches. Then, at the end of a long corridor, we saw the dog. It sat on its haunches and howled again at the sight of us. As we approached it leapt towards us, but was checked by the chain attached to its collar. The chain was fastened to the handle of the door facing us. A soldier unhooked it, led the dog away. It bounced beside him, happy to be released. We tried to open the door. It wouldn't move. There was an obstacle on the other side. The centurion ordered three soldiers to force it open. Still it didn't move. The dog was quiet now, and for a moment there was silence. Then one of the legionaries, a big Illyrian, pushed the others aside, took three paces back, and charged the door with his shoulder. There was a crack of breaking wood and the
door
yielded. Now it was easy to force it open. Someone had placed a bedstead and table against it. It gave on a little room, used for storage of unwanted articles. There was no one to be seen. Then the sound as of a man catching breath came from the corner, where rugs and coverings were piled. It was followed by a sneeze. I advanced, stood over the pile of rugs, was able to make out a figure, lowered my hand and, taking him by the arm, pulled Vitellius to his feet.

You will hear different versions of his capture, I've no doubt of that. But believe me, Tacitus, mine is the truth. You can believe me because I take no pride in what followed. Indeed the memory fills me with shame.

It was my intention to put him under formal arrest and keep him in safe captivity till order was restored in t
he city, and the leaders of our
party - indeed Vespasian himself - could determine what should be done with him, whether he should be formally tried, or despatched by imperial command. That would have been the proper way to behave. So I greeted him with the respect due to a man who had been acclaimed Emperor, though I had never recognised his title myself. You will agree that this was correct.

At first, I'm sorry to say, he tried to deny himself. No, he babbled, he wasn't Vitellius, how could we suppose he was? This protestation called forth mockery and insults from the soldiers, who had fought men that day ready to die for this creature, and themselves endured much to arrive at this moment. Then Vitellius changed his tune, after I had reminded him of who I was and of how recently I had been in his presence as an emissary of Flavius Sabinus, 'whose death you were too feeble to prevent', I added. When he heard these words, he fell to the ground and locked his arms round my legs, beseeching me to spare his life.

'I have something of value to say concerning the welfare of Vespasian,' he moaned. Take me to a place of safe custody, it will be to your advantage, I assure you of that, indeed I do.'

The centurion said, 'Shall I stick him in the gizzard, sir? He's disgusting, and the sooner we are finished with this bag of ordure, the better for all of us. He's worse than Nero. To think that men put this in the place of the Divine Augustus and Tiberius, it fair turns my stomach.'

'No,' I said, 'I know how you feel, believe me, I do. Nevertheless we'll do as he begs. It's for the Emperor Vespasian himself to decide this wretch's fate.'

There was a murmur of disagreement from the soldiers, a hint of mutiny, but the centurion was a man of honour. He said, 'As you command, sir,' sheathed his sword, and ordered the soldiers to fall in. Two of them were deputed to support Vitellius who seemed scarce able to walk of his own accord; on account of weakness of will, rather than of body.

So with some appearance of order and dignity, we emerged from the palace. At that moment we were intercepted by a troop led by the tribune Julius Placidus.

'Here's trouble,' the centurion muttered.

I presented myself to the tribune, who knew my name, but was more immediately conscious of his own seniority. He congratulated me, perfunctorily, and announced that he was now assuming command. He ordered that Vitellius' hands be bound behind his back, to demonstrate that he was a prisoner. I told him of my intention, adding, as was my duty, that Vitellius claimed to have something of importance to say concerning the welfare of Vespasian. The tribune said, 'And you believed him?'

'Not necessarily but, in any case, that's irrelevant. He's a prisoner of the State.'

'As you say. I'll take charge of him.'

What could I do? It would have been unseemly to pursue my appeal further. I was outranked. Indeed, having no official position, I was outranked even by the centurion, who had deferred to me only on account of my birth and breeding, perhaps manner also. I could only trail in the rear, a helpless witness of a degrading spectacle, made more guilty by the look, full of despair and reproach, which the wretched Vitellius directed at me.

Then he was marched slowly from the hill of Emperors. The soldiers who flanked him on either side, kept, at the tribune's command, their swords drawn, and raised so that the points pricked the underside of Vitellius' chin. So he was compelled to keep his head high, and could not shrink from the disgrace of his situation.
In
this manner they descended the Sacred Way.

Only one incident disturbed the melancholy progress. A German soldier, one of Vitellius' personal guard (as was later confirmed) leaped from behind a column, his sword lifted above his head. It was, I believe, his intention to despatch his fallen lord, either in anger, more probably (as I choose to believe) from motives of pity: to save him from the further degradation that awaited him before death. But he was prevented. A legionary rushed on him. There was a scuffle. For a moment the German broke free. He swung his sword again, but, unable to reach Vitellius, succeeded only in slicing off the tribune's ear. Then two soldiers fell on him and sent him before his master to the darkness that beckons to us all.

A crowd had gathered, alerted as ever by rumour of what was happening, and surged round the little column as it entered the Forum. There were many who had cheered Vitellius a few days before. There were, doubtless, some who were among those who had compelled him to break the agreement he had made with Flavius Sabinus -that agreement which had assured him
of his safety, prosperity and a
tranquil old age. Now they howled curses at him; some threw dung, others mud or whatever came to hand. With his robes in tatters, his face and neck daubed with filth, his head still compelled upright by the points of the swords, he presented a spectacle that was as pitiable as it was revolting. But there is no pity in a frenzied mob. So Vitellius suffered. Once, and I believe once only, his lips moved, and he was able to speak. Later it was said that his words did not lack dignity. Yet I was your Emperor.' But I do not know whether this was indeed what he spoke, or whether someone put suitable words later in his mouth. I was not close enough to hear. It is just as likely that he uttered a prayer for mercy, though he was beyond mercy.

They led him in this fashion as far as the Gemonian Steps, where a few days earlier the body of Flavius Sabinus had been thrown. There they killed him, not in manly fashion with a single thrust of the sword, but slowly, with an accumulation of little cuts, until finally, the tribune, one hand clasping a cloth to his own wound, told the soldiers to stand aside, and himself hacked at Vitellius' neck till the head was half-severed from the body.

Then this was dragged to the Tiber and consigned to waters that already ran red with blood from the battles fought further upstream.

So ended . . .

What more can I tell you, Tacitus?

Nothing. I am glad to be rid of this task you set me, which I have acquitted painfully, with honesty and regard for truth. May you do as much in your History. I am sure it will be read when I am forgotten, for you are a great artist. I have never doubted that. I ask only that you pay me due honour in what you write and acknowledge my help. That will afford me a glimmering of immortality.

What a vain desire!

You will know, of course, that Domitian, emerging from hiding, at once played the part of the Emperor's son in so haughty and imperious a manner that any who observed him then might have guessed how he would conduct himself when his own hour arrived. But there is nothing of value I can tell you concerning that.

So, farewell, and may good fortune guide you in your work and life.

XXXIX

It is some weeks now since I sent my last dispatch to Tacitus. I hoped then that I had done with memories of my dead life. Yet I cannot let them go like waste and debris that float down the incurious grey river to the indifferent sea.

I left Rome as soon as I decently could after attending to my mother's funeral rites. Perhaps, if Domatilla had spoken then, she would have persuaded me to remain. In honesty, I doubt it. I was eager for new experience that might obliterate the horror of the past year. Such as I found confirmed the cynicism that the spectacle of Nero's heirs struggling for supremacy had bred in me.