Allan Massie - Nero_s Heirs

When the semblance at least of peace and order had been restored, and it was clear that Galba was in command of the city, Flavius Sabinus went to pay his respects and was, to his surprise, confirmed in his post.

'Nevertheless,' Domitian said, 'he is not at ease. He says Galba's grip is uncertain. He says, too, that the old man is completely controlled by three of his staff whom my uncle terms "the Emperor's nursemaids".'

'Dangerous,' I said, 'to speak of them in that way, whoever they are. Who indeed are they?'

'I don't know much about them. How should I? I've been kept in this vile obscurity. One of them's called Titus Vinius. I think he was also a general in Spain. Another is Cornelius Laco…'

'Oh,' I said, 'you must know who he is. He used to be a Treasury official, and you must have seen him at the baths, eyeing up the wrestlers. He's very tall, rather fat, bald, with a big nose, and walks like a woman. Well, his tastes are a woman's, too.'

'He should have plenty of opportunity to gratify them then,' Domitian said, 'for he has been appointed Praetorian Prefect in succession to Nymphidius. He can command any brawny soldier he pleases to share his bed. And from what men say of the Praetorians, he won't find any difficulty in securing compliance. It's quite disgusting,' he added, his nose twitching. 'And, of course, the third nursemaid is the freedman Icelus, whom everyone says is our new Emperor's bedfellow. He's been made an equestrian, by the way, and wears so many jewels and gold bracelets you'd think he was on the stage. It doesn't sound to me as though the new regime is any more virtuous than Nero's. I wonder how long it can last?'

Everyone was asking that question. There were already rumours going around the Forum and the baths that the German legions were refusing to acknowledge Galba, and were intent on selecting an Emperor of their own. 'That's bad news for us,' Domitian's uncle said. I didn't immediately realise what he meant. 'Wouldn't that depend on whom they chose?' I asked. He looked at me as if I was a fool. This letter, too, must be sent in an edited form. There is too much in it that is personal, that cuts too close to the bone.

Tacitus also may think I was foolish. He has the advantage of hindsight. Historians, knowing what happened, can make harsh judgements easily. But even now I do not think I was obtuse in not realising in the first weeks of Galba's brief reign that my Flavian friends had already set their sights on Empire. Why should I have done so? I had never been given occasion to think of Vespasian as other than an ill-bred mediocrity. Though Titus had talked of his own ambitions, I had never supposed they reached to the supreme power; and though he had always spoken of ‘the old man's talent for always getting that bit further than anyone expects him to, and doing a job better, too, than was looked for', yet I couldn't conceive that a man whom provincials had pelted with rotten vegetables could aspire to wear the purple.

As a matter of fact, from various conversations, hints and speculations, of which there was an abundance in that fevered time, I was persuaded that if the Eastern armies were to follow the fashion and elect an Emperor of their own, they would choose L. Mucianus, not Vespasian. As Governor of Syria, Mucianus was nominally Vespasian's superior. He excelled him also in birth and achievement. Yet when I suggested as much to Flavius Sabinus, saying that if Galba failed to establish himself, his successor might be Mucianus, rather than whoever the German legions chose, his reply was brusque.

You know nothing about it, boy. For the moment anyway there will be no movement from the legions stationed in the East. They will wait to see how things develop in Rome and beyond the Alps. But Mucianus wouldn't do. We've had more than enough of that sort of thing. The soldiers want a real man as their Emperor, and preferably one with sons of his own.' Then he smiled, and patted my shoulder.

'Sorry to bite your head off,' he said, 'but it would be better if you didn't go around talking up Mucianus. Safer for you also.'

That was Flavius Sabinus' way. He could be crushing but, because he was naturally kind, always sought to mollify his reproof. He had a natural courtesy and polish of manner that his brother Vespasian lacked. Yet he had passed as much of his life in the camp as Vespasian himself. He had served under Corbulo in Armenia, and, despite distinguishing himself in battle, survived Corbulo's disgrace and retained Nero's confidence. Even Nero recognised that this stocky man with his close-cropped hair and down-turned mouth, which expressed freedom from any illusions, was trustworthy and honourable. Nero never even made jokes at his expense. In the next months I came to understand the selfless determination with which Flavius Sabinus advanced his family's interest – I say selfless because he never sought the first place for himself. But, equally, I never doubted that he was also driven by his understanding of what was best for Rome and the Empire.

When he spoke of the need to wait and see how events unfolded in Rome, this was, as I came to realise, because he was maturing a plan by which he hoped that his family could secure the Empire without further civil war. Domitian broke the news to me.

'It's not fair,' he said. 'Do you know what my uncle is trying to do? He is working to persuade Galba to adopt my brother as his heir. Why Titus? Why is it always Titus? Why am I forever cast aside, or ignored, as of no account?'

You have,' I said, 'the misfortune to be a younger son. It's the fate of younger sons to take second place.' 'It's not fair,' he said again, and again. How tired I was of hearing this refrain.

Domatilla said he was unhappy and couldn't help it. He was not to be blamed for his discontent. I had a letter from Titus, written in the cipher we had agreed. I have it before me, but shan't send it to Tacitus, it's too personal. Reading it now embarrasses me. But there is one paragraph I might let him see.

'… I rely on you to keep me abreast of a situation that must be changing with an almost inconceivable rapidity. You have the keen intelligence that allows you to penetrate below the surface and understand the significance of what others see only superficially. What, then, is afoot? I know that my uncle hopes to persuade Galba to name me his heir, and this hope, I must tell you, is shared by my esteemed father. But it won't do. I have discussed the possibility with L. Mucianus, who has, you will be amused to learn, developed a special tendresse for me, even though I am some years older than the beardless ganymedes with whom he chooses to surround himself and who delight his rather excessive hours of leisure. (He has many merits, this Mucianus, but the ability to work long and hard is not among them.) Be that as it may, I admire his sagacity, the penetration of his intellect. He is clear that it would not be to my interest to be named by Galba as his heir. "The Empire," he says, "is not now in any single man's gift. It is carried on the point of the soldiers' swords. To be nominated by Galba is to be condemned to failure and an early death. Caesar and Augustus won their supreme position by force of arms, and the exercise of their political skills. We are again in the same position as they were: the Republic in ruins, and all to play for. But believe me, dear boy, it is only when much blood has been shed and battles fought that stability can be restored." It is remarkable that one who loves to lie in perfumed softness should speak with the accents of a cold clear morning. But I am not asking you to dissuade my uncle from his endeavours, if only because you must fail to do so, and he would think it strange, even suspicious, that you should make the attempt. In any case, it won't do our cause any harm, if people hear my name mentioned in that context. Meanwhile the urgent matter here is to quell this ridiculous Jewish revolt, that we may be free to march to Italy when the time is ripe.'