In Judaea the Emperor’s death compelled Vespasian to halt his campaign while he waited for the new ruler to confirm or revoke his appointment as commander. Seizing advantage of the unexpected breathing space, a Jewish leader called Simon, Son of Gioras, managed to overrun parts of Judaea and Idumaea, which Vespasian had previously subdued, so all that was to do again: Vespasian grumbled irritably.

  Galba took his time over reissuing Vespasian’s command. Although they were both old soldiers, Galba was an inbred aristocrat, a homosexual, and a man who had governed Tarraconensian Spain for eight years on the principle (which he openly admitted) of doing as little as possible, so there was nothing for which he could be called to account. Galba and Vespasian lacked common ground. Indeed, Galba was the type of man Vespasian could hardly despise more. He made one or two bad moves. The worst, perhaps, was not giving the Governors of Syria and Judaea much more to keep them occupied.

  The following year was what people were to call the Year of the Four Emperors.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Once, afterward, Caenis overheard her freedman Aglaus giving his pet version of that tumultuous pageant of events on which so many historians would break so many pens. It was rather like the actor she had once seen mime a four-minute version of the Aeneid. It amazed an audience because it did seem so complete. It was magnificent. The outrageousness made her want to laugh and cry, but there was no time for either, as well-known events whistled past in his brilliant quick-fire summary. The skill was that one recognized triumphantly all that was included—and forgot what had been left out.

  Aglaus was talking to Julia, Titus’ daughter. Julia was a vivid little soul, though Caenis preferred Vespasian’s elder granddaughter, his daughter’s orphan, Flavia. Flavia was a quieter, level-headed young girl, something of a favorite with Sabinus, to whose own grandson she was betrothed. Flavia would never seek a freedman’s comments on the Year of the Four Emperors. She talked about it cautiously with Caenis; then in public she stayed silent. Of all his family it was Flavia who shared most acutely her grandfather’s sense of morality and duty.

  Not so the bubbling Julia. “Tell me the story of the Year of the Four Emperors!”

  “No; no; old history, child.”

  “Oh, it’s exciting; tell me!”

  “Well . . . all right. I remember,” Aglaus began, “the Year of the Four Emperors. I remember it for two reasons. One was that it never stopped being exciting. Also, it was that year my lady gave me my freedom. It seemed to me then that something had gone wrong. She had already told me she had put it in her will. So I imagined she must have fallen ill; some secret woman’s business that she didn’t want to mention—she was at that age; I kept an eye on her. The way she looked, I really saw myself having to supervise the nurse and bury her. . . . So a freedman! I felt wonderful and terrible all at once.”

  “Go on; go on! Come to the year!”

  “What a year! ‘The Year of the Four Emperors.’ Sounds quite organized. One after the other, nose to tail like elephants. No such luck. Utter confusion. Listen: Nero eventually topped himself in June that year before—”

  “Do his eyes!”

  Aglaus altered his voice to a thrill of horror: “When the centurion rushed into Phaon’s villa trying to capture him alive, Nero finally found courage to stab himself, crying, ‘What an artist perishes here!’ He died with his eyes glazed, and boggling out of their sockets, so that everyone present was horrified!”

  Julia screamed happily. In his everyday voice Aglaus commented, “So! Nero’s last song; enter Galba. So old he’s frightened he’ll drop dead from sheer excitement; hastily names Calpurnius Piso as his successor. Five days later, young Piso murdered; old Galba murdered; enter Otho. Otho is the poor dunce who had been married to Poppaea to cover up Nero’s adultery, then packed off for ten years to govern Lusitania while Nero married her anyway; Lusitania is all right if you’re very fond of sardines! Otho lasts from January to April. Next, Vitellius decides the legions in Germany need to stretch their legs. They start marching to Rome. We’re off: civil war. Otho’s nerve seems to crack. Keeps sending for his hairdresser to take his mind off things. Nice thatch; not much under it.”

  Julia was giggling. Otho’s thatch was a joke: it had been a clever wig.

  “Vitellius smashes Otho’s legions at Bedriacum. Otho decently does himself in; enter Vitellius.”

  This was Aulus Vitellius, one of the sons of Lucius Vitellius, who had once been a client of Antonia, the close friend and long-term supporter of Claudius, and once patron to Vespasian. But Aulus the son had other loyalties—primarily to himself.

  “The German legions storm into Rome. Rome thinks it best to welcome them; they have a serious reputation. Vitellius puts up with it from April to December—not bad for a loose type so drunk he can barely keep upright on the throne. And devious as they come. Your great-uncle Sabinus would be alive today if that bastard Vitellius had accepted the thumbs-down on 1 July. So what now? The legions in Moesia—Where the hell is Moesia? we all wonder, except Sabinus, who once lived there—decide it’s their turn to pick a Caesar. They beat up Vitellius’ messengers, rip their flags, steal their money, then stick a pin in a list to decide whose name to attach under their silver eagles next. And who does Moesia choose? We know, Julia, don’t we?”

  Julia giggled hysterically.

  * * *

  Caenis had known as early as March. She anticipated what would happen, exactly as Titus did. In many ways it was Titus himself who decided events.

  They had been expecting Titus home; he was supposed to be coming to intercede with Galba about his father’s still unconfirmed command. He never arrived. Caenis stood in the room that servants had opened and aired for him, with his letter in her hand, telling her so guardedly that he had decided not to come. Always polite, still he gave her no reason. She sensed it was one he could not yet formulate. She bent to smooth the coverlet on his newly made bed, while mentally she canceled preparations and plans. As she listened to the silence, she realized that this was not simply a matter of disappointing the butcher and the fishmonger, of removing a pot of scillas from his window ledge and piling his pillows back into the blanket chest. A chill caught her, as she dreaded that because of what he was doing now Titus might never again be able to return to Rome.

  He had actually sailed for home; that made it worse. His letter was written from Greece. When Galba had still not forwarded instructions to Judaea by March, with the campaign season at hand Vespasian had sent Titus back to Rome, to bend the knee in homage and ask formally for a new commission, releasing the Flavians to be up and at Jerusalem as they wanted. That was all they wanted, whatever foolish rumors flew about it in Rome afterward.

  In fact by the time Titus put to sea, Galba was already two months dead. There had been trouble with the army, because he had promised them a bounty, which it soon became clear he did not intend to pay. Detachments of soldiers, particularly those in Upper Germany, who originally helped quell the Vindex rebellion, refused to take the New Year’s Day oath of allegiance to a mean-handed Spanish appointee, and asked the Praetorian Guards to nominate another emperor who would be acceptable to all. Galba’s adoption of Piso was intended to reassure them. Instead it antagonized Otho, who had been Galba’s most significant supporter and who was not unnaturally expecting the privilege of imperial adoption himself. Hence Otho’s bid. Hence Galba’s murder. Hence young Titus Flavius Vespasianus, now abruptly yachting on a strange new tack in the eastern Mediterranean.

  Titus had reached Greece when he met messengers bringing news of Galba’s death. He should have continued his journey to salute Otho instead. His companion, King Agrippa, did indeed go on to Rome. Titus turned back alone. He visited Paphos. There stood a prophetic oracle, which he consulted at length. He spent a long time on his own, lost in thought. Then quite suddenly he sailed back to his father.

  Nothing was said. But from that moment Caenis knew what was happening. Aglaus, who had been with her for nearly twenty years, saw the change in her face. It was, as he told Julia, enough to make him believe his mistress might be terminally ill.

  There are two ways at least of being brave. In a sudden emergency, when the adrenaline floods, people act with courage because they have no time or no imagination to appreciate how much danger they are in. To have courage in a sudden crisis is comparatively easy. There are obvious and positive things to do. But to remain brave over a long period is a very different matter. To wait and to watch, for month after month, while inevitable tragedy stalks closer, that is the test. That exacts courage of a deliberate, self-wounding kind.

  Life was hard. Caenis had always known it. Some people endure that certainty all their lives. If ever they dare think otherwise, life restores their bitter understanding soon enough. Like her steward, Caenis would remember the Year of the Four Emperors. She would remember, because it would be when her shared life with Flavius Vespasianus had to come to a swift, unplanned end.

  She was not ill. Her freedman worked that out eventually. Some time at the beginning of that summer it struck Aglaus that the lifeless look on his lady’s face was one that of course he recognized: It was the classic expression of an old, exhausted, badly beaten, dismally broken-down slave.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Once Titus had sailed back to Syria there was never any question what he wanted his father to do.

  He himself began working toward it immediately. Titus could always attract the friendship of the most unlikely men, so with adept diplomacy he persuaded Licinius Mucianus, the Syrian Governor, who was one of several statesmen who might himself have joined in the free-for-all, to set aside any jealousy he had felt toward Vespasian and abandon his own possible claim for power. The two provincial governors had previously loathed one another with cordial contempt; Titus brought them together. Mucianus joined Titus in urging Vespasian to act.

  Spanish troops had reached Galba. Otho was acclaimed by the Praetorian Guards. The German army raised Vitellius; now in Judaea the Fifth, Tenth, and Fifteenth Legions sat in their camps deprived of action, all talking politics. Soldiers should never be allowed to do that. Yet Vespasian held his men in a firm discipline. He made no move; neither did they. Titus and Mucianus continued their private pressure for long hours in Vespasian’s tent.

  * * *

  Otho’s reign was so short, only four months, that Vespasian’s views on him as a “pea-brained Neronian pimp,” which he wrote to Caenis, were soon redundant. When Aulus Vitellius pranced through Gaul to snatch the Empire like a bullying child with a coveted toy, Vespasian grew more angry. Both he and his campaign-hardened soldiers were seized with indignation. Vitellius in his youth had been one of the aristocratic boys who entertained Tiberius in debauchery on Capri. He had raced chariots with Caligula. He was a glutton. He was a drunkard. Now he was being carried toward Rome in extravagant triumph, crossing rivers in barges wreathed with garlands while a huge train of hangers-on made merry at the expense of the populace, looting and terrorizing the countryside. It accorded ill with the Sabine ideal of public service.

  Even Vespasian did nothing. Having drawn up his three legions to take the oath of allegiance to their new Emperor Otho, four months later he drew them up again, himself expressionless, and made them take the oath to Vitellius. His behavior on both occasions was exemplary. It was the soldiers, normally so boisterous at accessions, who when called upon to swear their allegiance just stood in their ranks in devastating silence. They stared at Vespasian; Vespasian stared back at them. Their mood was plain. Everyone present could see the commander in Judaea was genuinely moved.

  Still he did nothing. He knew that to seize power was the first step only; holding it posed a very different task. He was instinctively modest. He listened to the appeals of his friends; he considered the risks. He remained withdrawn, watchful, apparently calm, although Titus knew, and Caenis could imagine, how the real state of his mind was highly active and alert. Many men know when to act; a few know when to wait. Vespasian let Otho and Vitellius fight it out among themselves.

  Otho died well. Lurking in Brixellum he heard how, despite earlier successes and the ill-preparedness of the German troops, his own army had been crushed at Bedriacum. He made the brave decision not to expose his supporters to further bloodshed. After encouraging his staff and making arrangements for their escape, he burned his official correspondence, attended to his private affairs, then retired to his quarters. He drank a glass of cold water, tested the points of two daggers, placed one beneath his pillow, and spent a last quiet night. At dawn he awoke and stabbed himself fatally once. He received an unpretentious funeral and a monument so modest it belied how far his reputation had been redeemed by his courageous death.

  Vitellius stood mocking at Otho’s simple monument; that summed up Vitellius.

  It was in Moesia that three legions who had been hastening to Otho’s support heard he was dead; heard that Vitellius was pronounced Emperor by the German legions; rejected the Germans; rejected Vitellius; and without anybody asking them for the favor, decided that Moesia would announce a candidate of its own. The theory was fine; they only had to choose their man.

  The legions in Moesia, who happened to include the Third Gallica, a group of stout characters recently sent there from Syria, sat down sensibly with a list of all the Roman governors and senior ex-consuls who might be eligible for their support. One by one they crossed these off as unsuitable. At the end a single name remained. They held a democratic vote. The man’s popularity was unanimously confirmed. The legions in Moesia methodically stripped their standards of the plaques that bore the dead Otho’s name, then nailed up instead the title of the new Emperor they had chosen for themselves.

  His name was:

  VESPASIAN

  On 1 July, Tiberius Alexander, the Prefect of Egypt, to whom Vespasian had written tentatively sounding out his views, made those views plain. Alexander was an equestrian who had risen to great position; he had started life as a freedman of Antonia’s, so he had an inevitable loyalty to those who had enjoyed her patronage. Tiberius Alexander called upon his own legions to hail Vespasian as Emperor.

  Meanwhile the legions in Moesia were persuading their neighbors in Pannonia to join their cause; their Pannonian neighbors encouraged the legions in Dalmatia to do the same. One by one provinces and kingdoms followed them—Asia, Achaea, Cappadocia, and Galatia—until a complete crescent surrounding the far end of the Mediterranean had declared for the eastern Emperor. Spain was friendly to Vespasian; Britain too. On the morning of 3 July in Judaea, Vespasian’s own soldiers decided of their own accord to stop greeting him as Governor. When he came out from his bedroom his bodyguard exchanged quick glances, saluted him: “Caesar!”; then defied him to put them all on a charge.

  Vespasian spoke to them quietly, in his soldierly manner. The word spread: He had accepted the nomination. On the same day, without even waiting for Titus to return from a liaison trip to Syria, he received the oath of allegiance himself from his own delighted troops. It was reported to Caenis that Vespasian had looked pleased but bewildered.

  In Rome, Vitellius censored any mention of Vespasian’s name. It was pointless; everybody knew. There would be another civil war. If Vespasian lost it he, his two sons, probably his brother, and possibly even his brother’s children too, would die. If he died, far away, Caenis would not even attend his funeral.

  If he survived, it would be far worse for her.

  She believed there was no better man in the Empire to undertake this role. She also knew there would be no question any longer that Vespasian could allow a freedwoman to share his life. Like Nero’s Actë, as a common girl who bore no grudges she might be suitable to entertain him occasionally—but only within carefully defined sexual limits. The very qualities that had once brought him back to her, the decent temperament that made him ideal to govern, would inevitably take him from her now. Vespasian would behave as an emperor should. Their fine, equal partnership would be broken. She had received from fortune the greatest gift she could ever expect. She had enjoyed it for longer than a decade; now she had to give it back.

  She said to Aglaus, when she granted him his freedom, “I have decided it would be best if I moved back to my own house in the Via Nomentana. Perhaps you could mention it for me to the leaseholder.”

  Aglaus knew she had continued to pay her ground rent all this time. He had arranged it for her himself. It was supposed never to be mentioned, though Aglaus understood that Vespasian knew. Two men together, Vespasian and Aglaus had quietly agreed: independent, that one. She did not trust her luck. She had had every faith in Vespasian, but none in life.

  Aglaus was an excellent steward; he had paid her rent discreetly and refrained from teasing her. Caenis was therefore surprised, even though his new status as a free citizen allowed him greater frankness, when he replied bleakly, “I think you’ll want to explain that to the leaseholder yourself.”

  Not for the first time that year, Caenis went cold.

  Aglaus braced himself and told her: “Well, it’s not necessary, actually. The lease was acquired by someone else. Vespasian bought it, just before you went to Africa; that was one of the reasons he was so short of cash. He told me, and told me to explain it to you if anything ever happened to him—I don’t think the present business was what he really had in mind! He rewrote his will at the same time to provide for you, but he wanted you to have something of your own in case anything went wrong. The estate is yours; it’s been yours for years. He bought it, but the deeds are in your name.”