Can there be a more trying ordeal than to be confined in a city under the government of your enemy while the forces of your ally or leader are campaigning some hundreds of miles away?
That was our position. Vespasian himself had not yet left the East, but the Danube legions had crossed over through the passes of the Pannonian Alps.
They had done so at the urging of Antonius Primus. There had been some who counselled delay. They argued that their forces were inferior in numbers, and advocated holding the mountain passes, but advancing no further till Vespasian, Titus or Mucianus brought up reinforcements. Meanwhile, they said, Vespasian's command of the sea ensured that Italy could be put in a state of siege. But Antonius Primus would have none of this. It was his opinion that delay is dangerous in a civil war. Moreover he despised Vitellius' troops, describing them (I am told) as being 'sunk in sloth, emasculated by the circus, the theatre and the pleasures of the capital'. But he argued that once in camp again, and perhaps strengthened by fresh blood from Gaul and Germany, they would regain their old levels of fitness and become more formidable than they were now. He talked much in this vein and overcame the hesitations of his colleagues.
All this, of course, I learned later in conversation. But you may take it from me, Tacitus, that it is a true account. I suppose you will concoct some stirring speech for Antonius. You will be wise to do so; his own language would be quite unfitted for an elegant History. He was one of the foulest-mouthed brutes I ever encountered. Meanwhile we waited in the city. News was frequent, confused, contradictory, worthy only to be called rumour, never to be trusted. In turbulent times, when no word is to be relied on, men do not stop their ears and choose to believe nothing they are told. On the contrary, they believe anything, the opposite today to what they held incontrovertible truth yesterday.
Since Vitellius had learned of Vespasian's challenge, and had despatched his army to war, Domitian thought it no longer safe to show himself in public. Indeed, he scarcely left his aunt's house, even to visit the barber, and felt himself in danger there, too. He talked often, and nervously, of seeking some more secure hiding-place, either beyond the city or in one of its lowest quarters, taking a room in some noisome and criminal alley which the agents of the State did not dare to penetrate. But the fear of the indignities and dangers to which he might be exposed in such a place restrained him. Some nights he drowned his fear in wine; then, in the morning, shaking – for heavy drinking always disordered his stomach and his nerves – his apprehension redoubled. It seemed terrible to him that the night before he had put himself in a condition which would have made it impossible to attempt to escape his enemies. Titus would have found his fears contemptible; I pitied him. He felt my pity, and resented it.
For my part, I continued to lead as regular a life as was possible in the disordered and fevered city. I judged that if I was in danger no concealment could save me; and that I might be in less danger if I evinced no fear or uncertainty – sure signs of guilt. So I frequented the barber, the library and the baths. I attended dinner-parties and theatres and never missed the races at the Circus. When Vitellius was there, he paid little attention to what was happening in the arena, though he was known to be a fervent supporter of the 'Blues', but remained in the rear of his box, and gave himself up to eating and drinking. Yet, when he did stagger to the front and show himself to the crowd, he was greeted with lusty cheers, which were prompted -it seemed to me – by a genuine enthusiasm. The mob is fickle, but Vitellius then enjoyed a popularity denied the Emperor since Nero was a young man. His one public care was to lavish donations on the people and arrange for free banquets. Someone remarked that Rome was in a bad way since the citizens were now habitually as drunk as the Emperor. It was a clever remark, also true, and I could wish it had been mine. But I have never, Tacitus, claimed credit for the bon mots or epigrams of others.
The mystery of these days was that Flavius Sabinus retained his office now that there was open war between his brother and Vitellius. I could not understand then how he contrived this, and I cannot enlighten you now. Some said that he was playing a double game. Domitian even went so far as to suggest that his uncle was guilty of treachery; but the boy was in his cups at the time.
Since I know that, if I do not offer some explanation, you will badger me for one in your next letter and, with your admirable pertinacity, refuse to believe that I cannot supply one, I shall advance a possible reason. But it is only a guess, based on no information.
Vitellius, I hazard, had never himself sought the Empire. It had been deposited on him by Caecina and Valens, and he had been too weak – too dazzled perhaps – to decline the perilous honour. But he knew himself to be unfitted for the task. He could not believe he could sustain the role. Brought up in the court, having attended on Tiberius, Gaius, Claudius and Nero, he knew – none better – the instability of Empire; he knew himself also to be inferior, one way or another, to all those he had served, often ignobly. There had doubtless been moments during the advance on Rome when he was carried away by the magnificence of his elevation. But even the most vile of remarks attributed to him – that nothing smelled more sweetly in his nostrils than the corpse of a dead rebel – suggest to me a man forcing himself to play a part which he had not rehearsed and was incapable of bringing off. Vitellius was spendthrift, greedy, lecherous, cowardly, dishonest, without principles of morality; but nothing previously had suggested that he took delight in cruelty. (Or so my mother told me.)
Now, established in Rome, he could do nothing for himself, but must await the outcome of battle. And he was afraid. How, he may have asked himself, in his rare sober moments, could the gods, who had turned from Nero and Galba and Otho, now favour such a man as he knew himself to be? (Like all weak men, Vitellius was superstitious; and throughout these weeks, even the most complaisant of priests found it difficult to present him with favourable omens.)
Feeling, and fearing, the instability of fortune, Vitellius looked apprehensively about him. And his gaze fell on Flavius Sabinus, the brother of his rival. Had Vitellius been a strong man, or had he believed in the valour and constancy of his armies, he would surely have arrested Flavius, even have put him to death, for there could be no doubt that Flavius Sabinus was at the centre of all seditious movements in the city.
But he did not do so. He did not even dismiss him from his post. And I can only think that he already knew that the day was likely when he himself might need a friend in Vespasian's camp or, if not a friend, someone who was under an obligation to him. Certainly it must have occurred to him that if it came to negotiations, his own position would be more secure if an intermediary was there, acceptable to both sides; and no one could fill that role better than Flavius Sabinus.
Having read my attempt at an explanation, you will, Tacitus, doubtless reject it. Your contempt for Vitellius is, I know, so unbounded that you will scorn the suggestion that he was capable of thinking intelligently. You may be right, and it is true, as you will insist, that Vitellius was rarely in a sufficiently sober condition to be able to think straight. All I can say is that no man could have survived the courts of so many Emperors as Vitellius had, without having a keen sense of what was necessary for self-preservation. The heat of the summer came on. I tried to persuade my mother to retire to her cousin's villa in the hills, as she was now accustomed to do. She refused. 'Things are too interesting here,' she said. Yet she rarely left her apartment.
One day I found Domitian with her there. I assumed he had come in search of me. But this was not the case. It was my mother he had come to talk, or listen, to; and my arrival embarrassed him.
Later my mother said, 'I can't help but feel pity for that boy. He is so uncertain of his place in the world, that I fear for him also. His lack of self-confidence will lead him into mischief. Men who cannot trust themselves are not to be trusted.' News came which for the moment disturbed the equanimity which Flavius Sabinus had hitherto displayed. Caecina had, as arranged, deserted his master. But he had moved too soon.
One of his friends brought word to Flavius Sabinus, arriving when I was with him in his apartment. The messenger, for such he was, indicated that he wished to speak to Flavius alone. Flavius replied that I was in his confidence and that he had no secrets which he desired to keep from me. At the time I was moved by this expression of trust. Later I thought: he is afraid. He may suspect me of treachery, and so wish to involve me more closely in whatever he plans; or he may fear that, if he excludes me, I shall suspect him of the same, and relay my suspicions to Titus. Thus do evil times corrupt us all; duplicity is common, openness and honesty provoke distrust. In retrospect I was ashamed of the thoughts I entertained. But it was natural that I should do so.
The messenger, still reluctant, at last acceded to Flavius' demand. I would that I could recall exactly what he said, for he spoke with an emotion that I found affecting. But I cannot; and I disdain to follow the example of historians such as Livy who invent speeches for their characters in order that they may display their own mastery of rhetoric. So I must content myself with giving the sense of what he said.
Caecina had learned of the revolt of the fleet at Ravenna; they had turned against Vitellius. At first their commander, Lucilius Bassus, hesitated. He did not know whether it would prove more dangerous to desert Vitellius or remain loyal. But when he saw that the mutineers were ready to turn on him, he bravely put himself at their head, and proclaimed Vespasian Emperor.
This news persuaded Caecina that the moment to change sides had arrived. So he called those officers and senior centurions whom he thought to be peculiarly attached to himself to a remote corner of the camp, and told them that in his opinion Vespasian had won the game and would prove a worthy emperor. Now that the fleet had changed sides, he said, they could not expect new supplies to reach them. There was nothing to hope for from Gaul or Spain and the capital was in tumult. His words were compelling, and they all swore an oath to Vespasian. The images of Vitellius were cast down and messengers were sent to Antonius Primus, commanding Vespasian's advance-guard, to tell him they were ready to join him.
So far, so good, you might say. But now it seemed, things took an unexpected turn. The rank and file of the army were not prepared to have their loyalties sold by their commander. Their anger, though spontaneous, was fanned by officers whom Caecina had neglected. One asked, in ringing tones, whether the honour of the army of Germany, hitherto victorious in every battle, had now fallen so low that they were ready to surrender to their enemies without a blow being struck. They wouldn't be received as allies, he said. On the contrary Vespasian's troops would despise them as they would learn to despise themselves. He appealed to the soldiers' pride and sense of honour. His speech carried the day; soldiers can rarely resist this sort of flattery. So they swarmed to headquarters and seized hold of Caecina. They loaded him with chains and made a mockery of him; indeed they came close to killing him on the spot, restrained only by a plea that he be reserved for formal trial and execution. Other officers and centurions, who had collaborated with their treacherous general, were slain. It was with difficulty, and in danger, that the messenger himself had escaped to bring this news.
Flavius Sabinus received this news with the appearance of composure. He gave the messenger gold, and then summoned slaves and told them to provide his friend with food and drink.
'So,' he said when we were alone, 'things have taken a turn for the worse. There's no question of that. I warned Caecina that timing was all, impressed on him the importance of not moving too quickly. Well, he knew better.'
'Things are no worse,' I said, 'than if you had made no arrangement with him. I do not think – from what Titus has told me – that Caecina's desertion had entered their plans.'
'No,' he said. 'It hadn't. That's not the point. Do you know what has guided my policy throughout these terrible months? I have had one constant aim: to avert civil war. Now that hope has gone. The decision will be made on the battlefield.'
I didn't ask him how he reconciled this aim with the encouragement which I had no doubt he had given Vespasian to declare himself a candidate for Emperor. It was not my place to ask that, and the question could have served no useful purpose. I have never been able to supply a satisfactory answer, and yet I was certain he was sincere.
'I had counted,' he said, 'on Vitellius' timidity. Caecina was foremost in forcing the purple on him. If Caecina deserted his cause, I was certain Vitellius would yield to us; and the matter might have been settled without more bloodshed. I have grown to hate war, you see. But now Vitellius will be filled with indignation only, that Caecina should have been ready to betray him. And his optimism, which flickers like a candle in a draught, will shine bright again. Moreover, moreover…' he paused and looked me in the eye for the first time since we had been left alone. He waited, as it seemed, for me to complete his thought.
You mean,' I said, 'that when he realises how close he was to disaster, he will seek revenge.'
'Just so. He is a weak man, and the weak and fearful are quick to strike. Like Nero, indeed. I do not think Domitian is safe. Tell the boy to drop out of sight, find some hiding-place.' 'What of you yourself, sir?'
'No,' he said. 'No. I may still be of use to Vitellius. He must know where I am to be found. But you, boy, like Domitian, should be careful. Few men are to be trusted in these troubled times.' His judgement was wise. When Vitellius learned of Caecina's disloyalty, he fainted, and only when he had been revived by the creature Asiaticus was he able to comprehend that Caecina himself had been deserted and imprisoned by his soldiers. His immediate response was to wish for his death, then he sent out orders that he be conveyed to Rome with every humiliation. Then he ordered the Prefect of the Praetorians to be arrested also – merely because he had been appointed on the recommendation of Caecina.
Vitellius proceeded to the Senate where he made a speech that was so confused that few could understand its meaning, except that he spoke much in praise of his own magnanimity. The Senators responded in like vein. The Emperor's brother moved a resolution condemning Caecina, and Senator after Senator spoke in the finest of antique manners deploring the action of a Roman general who had betrayed the Republic and his Emperor. But it was remarked that all were careful to say nothing that might be held against them should Vitellius lose the Empire. Indeed, not a single Senator uttered a word of condemnation of the Emperor's enemy. The name of Vespasian was not spoken. This encouraged Flavius Sabinus. All this I learned later. I did not of course, attend the Senate myself, being otherwise occupied, and in any case not yet a member of that august assembly (as I suppose I must still call it, though a more accurate description would be a collection of poltroons and self-seeking time-servers who disgrace their ancestors.)
My business was with Domitian. It will not surprise you, Tacitus, to learn that, though he had been so fearful and so desirous of finding a place of safety or refuge, he received his uncle's instructions with suspicion. It was, he said, some plot to prevent him distinguishing himself in his father's cause. It was another attempt to push him to the margin. It was treating him as a child and not a grown man. Why should it be safe for his uncle to remain in his post, while he was commanded to go into hiding? What sort of double game was his uncle playing?
And so on; his indignation burst forth in a cascade of confused and often contradictory questions.
At last I said: 'Do as you please then. I'm sure nobody cares whether you live or die.' Which infuriated him still further.
'I didn't mean that,' I said, 'but really you try my patience. Don't you understand that we all have your best interests at heart? Yes, your uncle is playing a dangerous game. But he is an honest man. I've no doubt of that. And the game will be still more dangerous if Vitellius gets his hands on you. You are the most valuable bargaining counter he could have.'
'He's right,' Domatilla said, 'it's because you're important that you must disappear from the scene. It would be terrible if you were arrested and held as a hostage. I couldn't survive it if anything awful happened to you.'
She was near tears. She laid her arm around her brother's neck, and drew his head towards her, and kissed his cheek. He could not fail to feel her anxiety and her affection, and could not fail, I thought, to be moved by it. But he disengaged himself from her grasp. 'I don't know,' he said. I looked out into the street.
'You may not,' I said, 'but you had better make up your mind quickly. There's a detachment of the Guard at the end of the lane, and I think they are making enquiries. They could be coming for you.'
That was enough. Whether Domatilla's flattery would have persuaded him to obey his uncle, I don't know. Fear was more successful. He looked round wildly. Where can we go?' 'There's only one way out that may be safe. The roof He was out of the door of the apartment and up the stairs like a rat surprised in a kitchen. I took Domatilla by the hand. You must come, too,' I said. She resisted for a moment, then gave way.
Fortunately, no one emerged from any of the upper apartments as we mounted the stairs, no one who might have indicated to the soldiers where we had gone. A little skylight, used by the workmen who required access to the roof, was our way out. I gave Domitian a leg-up. He struggled to open the window which at first seemed to be stuck fast. He uttered little panting gasps of anxiety as he did so. From below, from the bottom of the staircase well, I could hear the soldiers questioning the porter. Then the window moved. Domitian got it open, eased his way out, for a moment vanished from our sight. I didn't dare call to him. I picked his sister up and, with a movement like a dancer's, lifted her so that she could get her hands through the opening and find purchase on the roof. Then with another heave, I had her through. I stepped back three paces and, with a running leap, caught hold of the outer rim of the window. One hand slipped, and for a moment I dangled in the air, supported only by the other. I swung my free hand around. The sound of the soldiers mounting the stairs to the apartment came to me, as my hand, missing the rim again, was caught hold of by Domatilla. I swung myself up and was on the roof. Domitian was lying face down on the slates. He had almost slipped off and was clinging by his fingers. I turned and shut the skylight. Then I pulled him up, so that all three of us were standing on a narrow ledge. I saw now that the skylight did not open onto the flat top of the roof but on to its sloping side. Domitian had very nearly gone over the edge. I suppose now it would have saved Rome a lot of trouble if he had done so but, of course, that didn't occur to me at the time.
'We can't stay here,' I said. 'If we thought of this way out, they will, too. We can't be sure that they will not know we were in the apartment.' 'Our aunt won't give us away,' Domitian said.
'No, but the porter will have done so. You can be sure of that. If not when they first questioned him, then on their way down. We must get across the roofs.' Domatilla said, 'I know we must, but I'm afraid of heights.' Again I took her by the hand. We made our way along the ledge. 'Don't look down,' I said, 'and you'll be all right.'
We would have moved faster on the flat roof but I was afraid we might attract more attention there. So we worked our way to the end of the building. The lane below which seemed so narrow when you passed along it now appeared a dangerous chasm. There was a gap of ten or twelve feet to the next building. I could have cleared it easily if I had been able to take a run at it. So, I suppose, could Domitian, a better athlete than myself, if his nerve had held. But it was beyond Domatilla's powers, and I dare not leap with her slung over my shoulder, which would have been the only means of carrying her.
I hesitated. There was no sound of the soldiers. They might have left the building. They might not after all have thought of the skylight. If the aunt had said we were out, they might be content to await our return. Down below in the lane a pedlar with a donkey was selling his wares. There was no other movement, nothing to alarm us. But we could not remain there and, when Domitian muttered that it might be safe to return the way we had come, I asked him if he wanted to walk into a waiting reception committee of the Guard.
We worked our way round the building. It was late afternoon, heavy with rain-swollen clouds. Then, about twenty feet below us, there was a balcony, a rickety dangerous-looking thing protruding from an apartment on what I judged must be the floor second from the top of the building. We had tried two skylights opening out of different staircases and found them unbudgeable. The wood had swollen and they were fixed fast. I looked at the balcony. I could jump down there without difficulty but would it hold? And would the shutters that must open on to it be closed and fastened from within? And if they were, could I get back up to the roof?
We went round the roof again. There was no other way off that I could see. It began to rain. Domatilla was shivering, more from anxiety than the cold. I explained what I intended to do. She shook her head. Domitian would neither meet my eye nor offer an alternative plan.
So, gripping the edge of the roof, I lowered myself and, with my feet kicking the empty air, dropped to the balcony below. It shuddered as it took my weight, but didn't come away from the wall as I had feared it would. Whether it could take three people's weight was another matter.
The shutters were indeed closed and fastened. I rattled them, and held my breath. If the apartment was empty, then I would try to force them open. If it wasn't…
I heard movement from the other side of the shutters. I called out, gently. A dark shape appeared behind them. The sound of a bolt being withdrawn, and they were open. I found myself looking at a woman. She had a large moon-face and a dark complexion. She did not speak, but waited, seemingly impassive. I blurted out apologies for disturbing her, explained that my friends and I had been stranded on the roof. She nodded, and stepped back. I said, 'We're not dangerous, not criminals. Will you let us leave the building by way of your apartment?'
Again she inclined her head, saying nothing. I still wasn't sure, apologised again, began to offer a further explanation.
'That doesn't concern me. I don't want to know,' she said. Her accent was southern, with the little lisp of Basilicata.
I turned away, called up to Domitian, told him to lower Domatilla, and to take her weight as long as he could. Then she was in my arms. The balcony shuddered again and quickly I thrust her from me and into the room. 'Now yourself,' I called. 'Don't jump, let yourself hang down.'
I stretched out my arms to receive him. Shouts came from the roof beyond. Domitian uttered a cry, little more than a whimper. Then his feet appeared. He dropped, instead of hanging, and, as I caught him, his weight caused me to sway backwards against the flimsy balustrade. I heard a creak, flung him into the room. He landed, sprawling. I heard footsteps on the roof above, and a voice shouted, 'He's gone over the edge.' The balcony shuddered and swayed again. I felt it tear itself away from the wall, and, just in time, leapt into the room. Behind me I heard it crash into the lane. The woman looked at me. There was no expression on her face. Tm sorry about the damage,' I said. 'I'll pay for it, of course.' She spread her hands wide, in a gesture of denial.
"We never use it,' she said. 'I've told the landlord for months now it isn't safe.'
'You might have killed us,' Domitian said. 'As it is, I've cut my knee.' The woman closed the shutters and bolted them.
'I don't want to know anything,' she said. 'As far as I'm concerned you're not here. But whoever was after you is going to see there are no bodies in the lane.'
A girl, dressed in a stained shift and rubbing sleep from her eyes, came into the room. She left the door open behind her and I had a glimpse of a tumbled bed. 'What's happening?' she said.
'Nothing. You've seen nothing. Go back to bed. As for you,' she said to me, 'I'll thank you to be on your way, whatever that is.'
'I've lost my bearings,' I said. "Which lane does the door of this block open on?' 'I don't know about that. We just call it the lane.'
I looked at Domitian. He was trembling again – a reaction from fear which I have often seen since in battles.
I said: We'll have to chance it. We came a long way over the roof. There was only a small detachment of the Guard. They can't have posted men at every doorway in the block.' He took me by the sleeve and led me into a corner of the room.
'We could stay here,' he said. 'There's only this woman and the girl. If they make trouble you and I could deal with them. We could tie them up.' 'No,' I said. 'Why not? Then we could wait till it's dark.'
'No,' I said. 'She let us in. She didn't have to. Besides, with the curfew, we would be in more danger in the streets after dark than we are now.'
The woman said, 'We haven't seen you, like I said. Now be on your way.' There was still no expression on her moon face. Domitian said: 'Could you send the girl down to the street to see that it's safe?' The woman shook her head.
Domatilla said, 'Don't mind my brother. We're very grateful to you, really we are. Now we'll be off. I am sorry about the balcony.'
The girl looked at me. She had slanting eyes, almond-shaped, with long lashes. She hitched up her shift and scratched her thigh. She gave me a smile. I said to the woman, 'Again, we're grateful.' The girl said, 'I don't mind going down and having a look-see.' She smiled at me again. 'It could do no harm.' 'No,' the woman said. You'll stay here.' 'There's no need,' I said, 'but thank you.'
We didn't speak as we descended the stairs. At the corner of the last flight, I had the others wait while I went down to the lane. It was deserted, except for two old men arguing fiercely and aiming futile blows at each other. I beckoned to Domitian and his sister. I put my hand on his elbow when they joined me.
'Walk slowly,' I said. 'Casual. No hurry. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves.'
His arm was rigid. It was with difficulty that he obeyed. When we were out of the lane and had turned two or three more corners and got ourselves into a busy street, he said, 'Where are we to go?' 'Have you no ideas?' He shook his head. 'AH right then. Leave it to me.' 'What about your mother's?' he said.
'I'll take Domatilla there, but not you. We have to get you out of the way first. You're the one in demand.'
There was a boy from Rieti who had been a fellow-student of ours and who lived in this quarter. His parents were dead and he lived on his own while struggling to make a living practising law. He was a reserved and silent youth whose contempt for the corruption of the times was deep-grained. I had always been impressed by his honesty and his refusal to advance himself by the customary means of flattery of the great and toadying to those who might be useful to him. I had no doubt that he would receive Domitian and give him shelter, all the more because he felt himself superior to him. So I led Domitian there, and he was accommodated as I had expected.
'I can't put the girl up,' Aulus Pettius said. 'It's a question of propriety, not reputation, you understand.'
'That's all right,' I said, 'she's going to stay with my mother, but you will understand I can't place my mother in danger by asking her to take in Domitian, too.'
'What absurd and ignoble times we live in,' he said. It occurred to me that he was receiving Domitian precisely because his need of a refuge confirmed his own disgust with the degeneracy of the Republic. He had once described Nero to me as 'that base comedian who plays at being Caesar'. I liked the contempt, though the description was inaccurate. Nero played more enthusiastically at being a great poet and actor. My mother was happy to receive Domatilla.
'But,' she said, 'you will have to find somewhere else to lodge yourself while she's here. It's not that I mind what people say, but the girl has a reputation to be protected, and it would be wrong to give evil tongues any opportunity to spread scandal about her.'
'I can't thank you enough,' Domatilla said. 'I don't know what would have become of Dom if you hadn't been there.'
She knew all too well of course. She kissed me good-bye. It was a chaste kiss owing to my mother's presence, but even that small measure of affection had my mother clicking her teeth in disapproval.
Later in the afternoon, I returned to the moon-faced woman's apartment. I brought a small gift, and told her I had come not only to thank her, but to make sure that she had come to no harm. She nodded her head, but gave no thanks for the gift. 'I didn't need a reward,' she said. The girl said, 'I knew you'd come back.'
She poured me a cup of wine. The woman withdrew to the kitchen. The girl stretched herself out. She was still wearing the same shift and displayed breasts and thighs.
'She'll make us some food,' she said. 'She's not my mother, you know.' 'So what is she?'
'She just took me in. Now, you could say I'm a lodger. I pay rent, quite a lot, depending…'
'I see,' I said, and reached down and, putting my arm round her, raised her up. She turned and kissed me. I slipped my hand under her shift. For a moment she let it rest there. Then she led me through to her room and the tumbled bed.