The Blood of Caesar Read online

  THE BLOOD OF CAESAR

  A SECOND CASE FROM THE NOTEBOOKS

  OF PLINY THE YOUNGER

  ALBERT A. BELL, JR.

  Claystone Books

  http://www.albertbell.com/

  © 2008 by Albert A. Bell, Jr

  All rights reserved

  Originally published by

  INGALLS PUBLISHING GROUP, INC

  This is a work of fiction. Although loosely based on historical facts and possibilities, the characters and events are entirely a product of the author’s imagination.

  Illustrations by William Martin Johnson from the 1901 edition of Ben Hur, by Lew Wallace, from the 1978 reprint by Bonanza Books, and from Costumes of the Greeks and Romans by Thomas Hope, the Dover edition.

  Text design by Judith Geary

  Cover design by Ann Thompson Nemcosky

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  THE FIRST TO DIE under the new regime was the proconsul of Asia, Marcus Junius Silanus. His death was treacherously contrived by Agrippina, without Nero’s knowledge. She was not provoked by Silanus’ ferocity of temper. He was lazy, and previous rulers had despised him ... But gossip in the streets widely suggested that Nero, who was hardly more than a boy and had come to power only as the result of a crime, was less fit to rule than a mature, blameless aristocrat who, like Nero, was descended from the Caesars. For Silanus was a great-great-grandson of the deified Augustus—and this still mattered a great deal. (italics added).

  Tacitus, Annals 13.1

  I

  “THIS FEELS LIKE A TRAP,” my friend Tacitus said, putting his hand on my arm.

  He and I stopped beside the House of the Vestals and the dozen slaves accompanying us came to a halt.

  “A trap? What are you talking about? We’re in the middle of Rome.” I looked around, fearing that I would see a gang of thugs emerging from the shadows. But surely not within sight of the Praetorians who guarded the steps leading up the Palatine Hill.

  “There’s nobody else here.” Tacitus pointed to the foot of those steps, twenty paces or so ahead of us on the Nova Via. “Nobody else is going up to dinner. There’s something wrong.”

  “Maybe we’re just early,” I said, glancing at the length of the shadows around us.

  “Are you sure we’ve got the date right?” Tacitus asked.

  I signaled to Aristides, my nomenclator, who handed me the invitation I had received that morning. The broken wax seal reading CAES DOM AUG GERM around the figure of a defeated barbarian still clung to the single sheet of papyrus. I unfolded it and read it over again:

  G. Plinius Caecilius Secundus is invited to dine with Caesar Domitian in his house on the Palatine on the Ides of July at the tenth hour.

  “That’s what mine says, too.” Tacitus held his invitation next to mine. The same scribe had written both. “But where are the other guests?”

  Just as one frightened soldier spreads fear through the ranks, Tacitus was undermining my confidence. From our vantage point I couldn’t see much of the Forum, only the Lacus Juturnae and the temple of Castor and Pollux straight ahead of us. They lay almost deserted in the shadows cast by the late afternoon sun. By now most people had gone off to bathe and prepare for dinner. The prostitutes who plied their trade in the shadows of the temple showed no interest in the few unfortunate sycophants who’d failed to cadge an invitation to dinner somewhere.

  “I don’t like the looks of this at all,” Tacitus said. “I tell you, it feels like a trap.”

  “By the gods, man. We’ve been invited to dinner with the princeps. You act like the Cyclops is beckoning us into his cave to devour us. What do you think is going to happen?”

  “I don’t know, and that’s precisely what worries me.” He craned his neck to look down the side street leading to the Via Sacra. “Caligula used to invite men to dinner after he had killed them. Then he’d pretend to wonder why they didn’t answer his invitation.”

  I didn’t see the connection. “Are you suggesting Domitian is as mad as Caligula was?”

  Tacitus looked around at our slaves, who were making no effort to disguise their interest in our conversation. “No. No, of course not.” Taking my shoulder, he drew me a few steps away from the slaves and lowered his voice. “But what if Domitian has invited us here to arrest us?”

  “That’s a bit far-fetched.”

  “No, it’s not. He doesn’t dare arrest Agricola, but he could arrest Agricola’s son-in-law.”

  In the three months since we returned from Syria, where we became friends, I had learned how much Tacitus despised Domitian. He hated, on principle, anyone who ruled Rome like a king. And then Domitian recalled Tacitus’ father-in-law, Julius Agricola, from the governorship of Britain and made it clear Agricola would receive no further appointments. Agricola’s popularity, with the army and with the people, guaranteed his life, but everyone knew Domitian was insanely jealous of him.

  And why not? Agricola had proved himself a better general than Domitian and, in the opinion of many, would make a better king, if Rome must have a king by whatever name and if that king could come from some family other than Caesar’s. Vespasian and his sons had shown he could, even if he had to usurp the name of Caesar along with the power. The line of Julius Caesar and Augustus had to end sooner or later, just as so many noble families in Rome are dying out. I was my late father’s only child and my uncle adopted me in his will because he had no children.

  “You can’t seriously believe Domitian intends to arrest you,” I said. “People who are going to be arrested don’t get invitations to dinner. They’re rousted out of bed in the middle of the night by the Praetorians.”

  “If he’s not going to arrest me—or worse—then where are the other guests?” He waved his invitation toward the empty street ahead of us.

  For that I had no answer. As I stared up the Nova Via, a scrawny-legged plebeian in a ragged tunic made his way across it. The wretch would trade his wife and children, I knew, for the note I was carrying. And I would happily be relieved of something that suddenly felt more like a summons than an invitation.

  Tacitus was right. There ought to be other people coming to dinner. I could not imagine any reason why Rome’s ruler would want to have an intimate dinner with two obscure young equestrians, recently returned from holding minor provincial posts.

  “I don’t want to go up there,” Tacitus said. “I’d rather leave Rome right now. Cross the frontier into Germany. Or maybe Parthia. Anywhere but the top of that hill.”

  “Are you mad? Where have you gotten such a strange notion?”

  With his hand on my chest Tacitus pinned me against the wall of the House of the Vestals. Although he’s nearly a head taller than I am, I don’t usually feel that he looms over me. But at that moment I felt like I was facin
g a cut-throat in a dark alley. “You know I put no stock in religion, Gaius Pliny.” His voice sank to a whisper and he put his face closer to mine. “But Julia consulted an astrologer this morning, to ask about us coming here. The seer said, if we climb that hill, our lives will never be the same again. I scoffed at that message until we got here and saw no one else going up to dinner.”

  The desperation in his voice frightened me. I pushed him away and tried to laugh it off. “Your wife wasted her time and your money. That response is as vague as any the Delphic oracle ever gave. It could prove true in several ways, not all of them bad.”

  “But few of them good.”

  “Be reasonable. We can’t ignore an invitation from Domitian.” I was trying to convince myself as much as Tacitus. “If you aren’t on his list of enemies already, you would be after such an affront. And so would I.”

  “I’ll wager your name has already been added. You’re a friend of Agricola’s son-in-law. That assures you a spot near the top of any such list Domitian draws up.”

  I must admit I had never thought of my friendship with Tacitus as posing any danger for me. “You’re being overly dramatic about this. Perhaps the other guests have been invited to come a bit later. Domitian may just want to get acquainted with us.”

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  “Why not? ... My uncle served his father loyally. Your father-in-law has enjoyed a distinguished career, even if he’s out of favor at the moment. That could change.”

  “So you think this is Domitian’s way of making peace with Agricola.”

  Like a drowning man, I grasped at anything that might keep me afloat. “Why shouldn’t he want to get to know the next generation in both our families? He may have some new appointment in mind for us.” I knew I would never win a case in court with such weak arguments. “In any event, we dare not ignore this invitation. And we can’t be late.”

  I stepped out of the shadows and took a few steps up the Nova Via, waving for my slaves to follow me. Tacitus’ slaves assumed they were being summoned as well. He could do nothing but fall in with us.

  The street ran into the Forum at the point where the steps leading up the Palatine began. That was where we stopped. One of the Praetorians guarding the stairway approached us, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword. “May I help you, sirs?” The words were cordial, but his face—which had all the charm of a clenched fist—and his tone of voice said, ‘You’d better have some business here or be on your way.’

  We held out our invitations, as though offering a sop to a snarling watchdog. “I’m afraid it may be a mistake,” I said.

  The Praetorian looked up from reading the notes. “Not at all, sir.” The menace was gone from his voice, but his expression had not softened. “You and Cornelius Tacitus are expected. Please, go on up. Someone will meet you on the stairs to escort you in.”

  Once we were on the steps I said, “See, we got past the guards with no trouble.”

  “But will they let us pass when we’re going the other way? What do you suppose would happen if we tried to leave right now?”

  I rolled my eyes in disbelief at his unreasoning suspicion, but I knew we didn’t dare turn around.

  The marble steps up the hill were slick from the rain of the last two days and the morning’s drizzle. Although the sun was trying to break through the clouds, the sky threatened more rain by evening.

  “Let’s hope the rain holds off until we can eat and get home,” I said, hoping to keep any conversation on a safe topic, if one can find such a thing in Rome.

  “You don’t like traveling in the water any more than on it, do you?”

  “As I’ve told you, my friend, water belongs in two places—in a bath and mixed in wine.”

  We fell silent as we concentrated on negotiating the steps. If we had been wearing just tunics, as our slaves were, it would have been less difficult. But our dining gowns threatened to trip us and fling us face-first on the stone. We finally gathered them up like women do to avoid dragging them in the filth in the streets.

  We were halfway to the landing when Tacitus asked, “Have you been up here before?”

  “Only once, ten years ago. My uncle brought me with him when Vespasian appointed him procurator of Hispania Tarraconensis. It looks quite different now from what I remember.”

  “I would expect so. Domitian has turned the Palatine into the busiest building site in Rome.” His tone made the statement an accusation.

  “But every princeps has built something up here—a new house or an addition to an older structure.”

  Tacitus said nothing. What could he say? I was right. Augustus, our first princeps, lived atop this hill in a house no grander than any other Roman nobleman’s. Domitian, by pushing all other property owners off the hill, had made room for what would be the largest house in the city, complete with its own arena for games and shows. With the workmen done for the day, the scaffolding and the unfinished walls of his edifice loomed so high into the mist that we could barely make out the tops.

  “Look at that,” Tacitus said in disgust. “He’s extending the Palatine into the very heavens. This reminds me of the giants that Ovid talks about, piling mountains together to reach the kingdom of the gods. Someone should read that story to Domitian, to remind him of the disaster that struck them at the end.”

  “Someone should remind you of how unwise it is to talk like that—anywhere in Rome, but especially here.”

  We finally reached a landing where three or four people could stand. A slave—the most perfectly proportioned dwarf I’ve ever seen—greeted us there. His voice was high, child-like.

  “Welcome, my lords. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the dining room.”

  The Palatine is not much higher than any of Rome’s other hills, but it is steeper. We were breathing hard by the time we reached the door of the house. My uncle had difficulty with his breathing throughout his life, perhaps because he was so heavy. On those occasions when he had business on the Palatine he was carried up the steps in a chair, as I was when I accompanied him. Now that I had made the climb myself, I felt sympathy for the slaves who bore such a burden all the way up here.

  “Please, rest here for a moment,” the dwarf slave said.

  Tacitus was panting as he put his hand on my shoulder to steady himself. “That little imp’s not even breathing hard,” he whispered. “How does he do it?”

  The dwarf did seem unaffected by the ascent. “My lord Domitian knows the approach to his house is arduous,” he said. “He suggests that his visitors pause here, have something to drink, and enjoy a splendid view of the city.”

  He clapped his miniature hands twice and two slave women appeared from somewhere behind us. One carried drinks for our slaves, who were sitting on the steps below us. The one who approached Tacitus and me carried a tray with two cups of wine on it. She must have been German, with her blonde hair, broad hips and full breasts. Tacitus eyed her appreciatively as she served us. She was the type of woman he prefers—when he prefers a woman.

  “If you don’t require anything else, my lords,” the dwarf said, “I will make certain everything is ready for your arrival.”

  As he and the slave women disappeared into the house Tacitus sipped his wine and shook his head slowly. “Something is very odd here. Don’t you feel it yet?”

  I grabbed his gown and pulled him over to me so I could lower my voice to a whisper. “Yes, you’ve convinced me. There is something odd going on! I would even call it downright peculiar. But I wouldn’t discuss it in an audible voice right on the princeps’ doorstep.”

  “Who’s going to hear us? There’s no one within earshot except our slaves.”

  “My dear Tacitus, you know as well as I do that in Rome there’s always someone within earshot.”

  I released my grip on his gown and he straightened it. I took another sip of my wine, the best Falernian I’d every had, and raised my voice. “We were given an opportunity to enjoy the
wine and the view. Let’s do that. You must admit, both are superb.”

  Spread out below us lay the Forum, the heart of Rome since the city’s foundation. I had looked down on it from other hills. My own house sits on the Esquiline, which is farther from the Forum but about as high as the Palatine. The Palatine, though, offers a view of the Forum that only the most privileged birds enjoy. The sun, low in the sky behind us, managed to part the clouds for a moment and lit up the glistening, red tile roofs as though they had been polished by a legion of slaves.

  “A panorama of Rome’s history lies at our feet,” I said firmly enough that any eavesdropping imperial spy could hear me. “The temple of Saturn—as old as Rome itself. The Senate house across from it. And the Basilica Aemilia, where old Cato used to pontificate.” I pointed at each structure as I named it. “The house of the Vestal Virgins here below us and the temple of Jupiter Stator at the other end of the Forum—they’re ancient but just as solid as the day they were built.”

  “I agree,” Tacitus said. “The Forum is Rome’s history written in stone. And its future as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pointed to one structure after another, jabbing his finger angrily. “There’s the Basilica Julia. Behind the Senate house is the Forum of Julius. And down that way is the temple of the deified Julius. Oh, and let’s not forget the Forum of Augustus across the way and the arch of Augustus below us. Do you see the pattern emerging?”

  I grasped his point, but I was more concerned about someone emerging from the doorway to our left and getting it as well. He was not being subtle.

  “There,” Tacitus went on, warming to his topic,“is the temple of the Penates, the city’s ancient household gods, but it’s now overshadowed by the Forum of Vespasian. And at that end of the old Forum are the arch of Titus and the baths of Titus and Vespasian’s amphitheater. Look at it, Gaius Pliny! Rome’s past is surrounded by the buildings of our rulers, just as surely as the army lays siege to a city.”