The Four Emperors E-Book

David Blixt

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

"Be prepared to burn the midnight oil. It's well worth it." - Historical Novel Society

Under Emperor Nero's rule, Rome is a dangerous place. His cruel, artistic whims border on madness, and anyone who dares rise too high has their wings clipped with fatal results.

For one family, this means either promotion or destruction. While his uncle Vespasian goes off to put down a rebellion in Judea, Titus Flavius Sabinus struggles to walk the perilous line between success and notoriety as he climbs Rome's ladder.

When Nero is impaled on his own artistry, the whole world is thrown into chaos, and Sabinus must navigate shifting allegiances and murderous alliances as his family tries to survive the year of the Four Emperors.

Leseprobe

Colossus The Four Emperors

David Blixt

Copyright (C) 2013 David Blixt

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Doug Sills

POSSUNT, QUIA POSSE VIDENTUR “They can, because they think they can.”

VirgilThe Aeneid Book V

Dramatis Personae

NERO – NERO CLAUDIUS CAESAR DRUSUS AUGUSTUS GERMANICUS, born LUCIUS DOMITIUS AHENOBARBUS, Imperator of Rome's legions, Pontifex Maximus, Princeps Senatus (leader of the Senate)

POPPAEA – POPPAEA SABINA, divorced from Otho, wife to Nero, d. 65 AD

STATILIA – STATILIA MESSALINA, married to Nero 66 AD

GENS FLAVIA (FLAVIUS FAMILY)

OLD SABINUS – TITUS FLAVIUS SABINUS SENIOR, Senator

VESPASIAN – TITUS FLAVIUS VESPASIANUS SENIOR, his brother, Senator, general of the war in Judea

SABINUS – TITUS FLAVIUS SABINUS JUNIOR, son of Old Sabinus, Senator

TERTIUS – TITUS FLAVIUS SABINUS TERTIUS, elder son of Sabinus

CLEMENS – TITUS FLAVIUS CLEMENS, younger son of Sabinus

TITUS – TITUS FLAVIUS VESPASIANUS JUNIOR, elder son of Vespasian, Senator

DOMITIAN – TITUS FLAVIUS DOMITIANUS, younger son of Vespasian

CERIALIS – QUINTUS PETILLIUS CERIALIS CAESIUS RUFUS, Senator, Vespasian's son-in-law

GAUDENTIUS – QUINTUS FLAVIUS GAUDENTIUS, distant relative, an architect

FLAVIA – FLAVIA DOMITILLA, daughter of Cerialis, Vespasian's grand-daughter

JULIA TITI – JULIA FLAVIA, daughter of Titus

CAENIS – ANTONIA CAENIS, former slave, mistress of Vespasian

PHYLLIS – former nurse of Domitian, now nurse to Julia & Flavia

NOTABLE ROMAN CITIZENS

CORBULO – GNAEUS DOMITIUS CORBULO, Senator, famed general, now in disgrace

PLAUTIUS – LUCIUS AELIUS PLAUTIUS LAMIA AELIANUS, Senator, married to Corbulo's younger daughter

DOMITIA CORBULA – Corbulo's elder daughter, now widowed

DOMITIA LONGINA – Corbulo's younger daughter, wife of Plautius

VERULANA GRATILLA – friend to Corbulo's daughters, wife of Quintus Junius Arulenus Rusticus

GALBA – SERVIUS SULPICIUS GALBA, Senator, Governor of Nearer Hispania, aging general

OTHO – MARCUS SALVIUS OTHO, Senator, Governor of Further Hispania, Nero's former friend

VITELLIUS – AULUS VITELLIUS, Senator, pleasure-loving would-be general

SEXTILLA – widow of Lucius Vitellius, mother of Aulus and Lucius Vitellius

TIGELLINUS – OFONIUS TIGELLINUS, Knight, Praetorian Prefect, breeder of racehorses

NYMPHIDIUS – GAIUS NYMPHIDIUS SABINUS, Knight, Praetorian Prefect

MUCIANUS – GAIUS LICINIUS MUCIANUS, Senator, governor of Syria in late 67 AD

MAMERCUS – MAMERCUS CORNELIUS MARTIALUS, retired centurion, leader of Rome's Urban guard

CAECINA – AULUS CAECINA ALIENUS, Senator, legionary legate in Hispania and Germania

VALENS – FABIUS VALENS, Senator, legionary legate in Germania

PAULINUS – GAIUS SUETONIUS PAULINUS, Senator, general who defeated Boudica

ANTONIUS – MARCUS ANTONIUS PRIMUS, exiled Senator recalled by Galba

SLAVES & NON-CITIZENS

SYMEON – SYMEON BEN JONAH, condemned leader of an outlawed Hebrew sect

SAUL – SAUL OF TARSUS, Roman citizen, Symeon's rival, also condemned by Nero

ABIGAIL – Judean born Hebrew, Symeon's consort, now a slave

PEREL – PETRONELLA – Symeon and Abigail's daughter, now a slave

SETH – SETH BEN TABI, Symeon's friend, now a slave

MARCUS – MARCUS COMINIUS, Italian-born convert to a Hebrew sect, a scribe

LINUS – MARCELLINUS JUVENTIUS HERCULANUS, Roman-born convert to a Hebrew sect

SPIROS – Greek shepherd boy

JOSEPHUS – YOSEF BEN MATITYAHU, captured Judean general-priest-historian

AN APPENDIX AT THE BACK OF THIS NOVEL LISTS THE ORDERING OF THE ROMAN LEGIONS AND THEIR LOCATIONS DURING THIS PERIOD.

Author's Note

Colossus: a person or thing of enormous size, importance, or ability.

This is a colossal story. It arrived like Athena from the brow of Zeus, one massive tale, complete from start to finish. A tale so large, in fact, it proved impossible to fit all into one novel. With that in mind, I just wrote and wrote, then came up for air and looked around to see where I was, what I had.

What I had was enormous, and I was nowhere near finished. So I took that sprawling first novel and broke it into three parts. The first, COLOSSUS: STONE & STEEL, was a more intimate tale, following the Hebrew brothers Judah and Asher through the end of the siege of Jotapata.

Yet there was a separate part of the same story, the story of a mother and daughter, and also of a father and son, that happened even as the twins were facing their trials.

These two tales occur concurrently, interweaving at places. Like Castor and Pollux, COLOSSUS: THE FOUR EMPERORS is S&S's twin brother, born just seconds later.

After this, worlds converge and stay intertwined all the way to the end. For that is the way of clashing cultures – once they come together, there is no way to extricate one from the other. They influence each other, leaving neither pure, hopefully strengthening and improving both.

But as with all creation, there must first be destruction. And as with all destruction, while outside forces may be blamed, the true enemy always lies within…

“HE WILL LIVE ILL WHO DOES NOT KNOW HOW TO DIE WELL.”

- SENECA

Prologue

ROMA, ITALIA13 OCTOBER 64 AD

Made of Cyclopean stones, the Tullianum was a prison without bars. There was nothing whatsoever to prevent a prisoner from walking out into the open air.

Yet Symeon did not escape. It was a perverse honour to be held in such a place, where for centuries Romans had executed kings, generals, and noble traitors. A mark of respect.

As the breaking dawn illuminated the cell, Symeon began to pace, repeating and polishing newly-memorized phrases until the language was clear in his mind. His friends had often pleaded with him to set the words down, but he had always deferred. “There will be time,” he'd assured them.

But there was no more time. Fifty-nine years old on the day of his death, and still learning only through mistakes. The story of his life. Always he had to stumble in order to see the path.

One of his guards entered. “Guest to see you.” By law, Symeon was allowed no light after dark, nor writing instruments. But out of kindness his guards allowed him one visitor. Not his love, nor his child. No, it was a man Symeon had spent much of his life cursing. A fellow Jew called Saul.

Symeon and Saul were a study in opposites. Tall but stooped, Symeon was bald on top with a long white beard, whereas Saul's thinning hair was clipped close, his greying beard nearly squared. Symeon exuded calm, perpetually smiling in the face of sadness. Short, Saul suffered all a short man's failings—temper, arrogance, envy, bombast. And Symeon had never understood the other man's disdain for women.

Yet a man in prison does not sneer at company. “Good morrow, my friend.”

Saul had no time for pleasantries. “I am to be executed! Can you believe it? I am to die today! You as well,” he added in after-thought.

“Ah.” Having expected it for weeks, Symeon took the news philosophically. “Did they say how?”

“As a citizen, I shall lose only my head. You…” Momentarily, Saul focused on someone other than himself. “I am very sorry to say, old friend, that you will be given the death of a slave.”

Symeon closed his eyes. Had it come to this? The rest of his flock sold into slavery, including his other half and their darling child. Far from what he had imagined when he'd set sail from Judea. Once again he'd failed to protect his family. And now Symeon faced the unthinkable: crucifixion.

I must brave it as a man with not only an example to set, but one to follow.

Turning his mind from his own fate, he said, “But why are you to die? They can't be charging you with the fire. You were already in custody.”

“I'm to die for my Judean crimes.” Saul's bitterness was acid enough to taste in the air. “It is a pretext. The crowds are becoming increasingly violent and Caesar needs someone to blame for the fire. Who better than we troublesome Hebrews?”

Symeon had no time for railing. Lowering his voice he asked, “Marcus is here?”

“Yes.” Saul sniffed. “You know I disapprove. Judaism is for the Jews.”

“That was not His message.” Symeon called to his guards. “Gentlemen, Caesar has spoken. I must die today. If you wish to hear the end to my tale, I must speak quickly.”

Entering, the two Romans sat on either side of the door, their wooden staves across their laps. Saul sat in his accustomed place, closing his eyes to behold the story as he dreamed it should be.

Framed in the light from the doorway, Symeon remained standing to recite his story, careful to get each word right:

And the soldiers led him away into the hall, called Praetorium; and they called together the whole band. And they clothed him in purple, and platted a crown of thorns…

Just outside the cell, the young man called Marcus crept forward. He was not Judean, but from the Italian region of Picenum, with blond hair, freckles, and a pugnacious nose. Taking up a post beside the door, he began making frantic shorthand notes upon a wax tablet, preserving Symeon's words for ever and ever.

* * *

Not far away, a god stalked among the charred ruins of the Esquiline Hill. Short and stocky, well muscled and fit, the rising sun revealed streaks of red among his blond hair, echoing the crimson glint in his eye. The god's name was Nero.

As mercurial as his uncle Gaius, and nearly as bloody, Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, Princeps Senatus, Pontifex Maximus, Tribune of the Plebs, father of his country, and Imperator of Rome's Legions had been recently given one more title: Divus. A godhead voted him by the whole Senate under the stony gaze of Rome's more traditional deities. Primus inter pares indeed.f us notion, elevating men to such lofty levels. the notion of Nero touting his godhead. It was un-Roman.s could se

Trailing in the god's wake was a mere mortal, Titus Flavius Sabinus. In his early thirties, Sabinus owned a strong chin, a long straight nose, and bright blue eyes. His was a recently ennobled family, having only been in the Senate for the last hundred years. His great-grandfather had been a soldier-farmer in the best Roman tradition, fighting in the great civil war at Pharsalus—on the losing side.

From opposing the Caesars, the Flavians now served them. As did the rest of the world.

The god spoke. “What's the delay?”

Sabinus was briskly concise. “Caesar, the engineers assure me they are working as fast as they can. There are acres of rubble to shift—”

“Not nearly good enough,” retorted Nero grimly. “Commandeer more slaves. Homeless Romans are suffering, I among them! I refuse to inhabit that shabby relic any longer than necessary.” The god pointed back towards the magnificent structure on Palatine Hill that had once belonged to the Divine Augustus. Somehow it had been spared the ravages of the seven-day fire.

What else was there for Sabinus to say? “Yes, Caesar.”

In private, Sabinus ascribed to the Stoic philosophy, believing violent emotions stemmed from errors in reason. The philosopher Zeno declared the goal of life was to live in accord with nature, that virtue itself was enough cause for happiness.

To be forced to serve a man so unpredictable, so ruled by passion, was a trial for Sabinus. But he was no idealist – no Cato of Utica, certainly! Though a Stoic at heart, Sabinus lived in the real world.

The greatest Stoic of the modern age had been Nero's own tutor, Seneca. Dead less than a year, forced to kill himself when his name was unfairly linked to a plot to kill his pupil. Seneca dead, and Nero a god. The world was in chaos.

They strode on, the mortal and the god, followed by the phalanx of freedman-assistants, licker-fish, and ass-spongers that Nero invariably collected. He called them his Augustiani. Preceding them all were the Praetorians, led by the two Prefects, Tigellinus and Nymphidius – men who lived only to do Caesar's will. Dressed in pure white, Caesar's bodyguards appeared like deadly doves against the charred, black remains of the bodies underfoot.

The crowd retreated at the approach of the white-clad soldiers. Most of these gawkers were capite censi, mere Head Count citizens, too poor to belong to any of the five economic classes. But while some had come for alms, a few onlookers were here to search for kin. That they still searched a full three months after the fire spoke to the depth of their despair. They had lost everything. Many of their kindred had chosen to perish in the flames rather than exist in a world with nothing.

It had been a terrifying night. The fire had broken out in the Circus Maximus, in the valley between the Palatine and Aventine hills. Winds blew it away from the Tiber, where it might have been snuffed out, sending it instead east across the Caelian hill and the space beyond. Then it had spread north again, roaring across the Carinae and the Subura, firing palaces and insulae alike. Temples built in ancient times were immolated, and nowhere seemed safe.

Like Aeneas with Anchises, Sabinus had taken his father over his shoulder and, with his nephew and sons, he'd run for the open road, where so much of the city had gathered to watch as over six days their homes, business, and temples vanished into smoke. In the end, Sabinus' house had been spared. So many others had not. Of Rome's famous seven hills, four had been damaged. Of Rome's fourteen districts, only four emerged intact. Three had gone beyond all hope of salvage. The rest were ravaged and scorched in part, if not whole. The fire had acted as if driven by a will, sweeping through the city as if encouraged by the gods.

Or one god.

Watching the mourners, Nero murmured to Sabinus, “Poor fools. They claim I sang an ode to Venus while the city burned. As though that would be appropriate! I'd have picked the Song of Troy, particularly the sacking of the city and the death of Priam. More apt by far.” He began to sing in that high, carrying voice that commanded so much applause:

Then son to mother, mother to her son, pointing to the place where Troy lies prostrate, will mark it afar with pointing finger, saying: “Yonder is Ilium where the smoke curls high to heaven, where the foul vapours hang.” The Trojans by that sign only will see their fatherland…

Breaking off, Nero grinned. The humor eluded Sabinus, but he produced a smile nonetheless. His uncle, the retired general Vespasian, had once been inattentive during one of Nero's concerts, and the next day found himself called up out of retirement to govern the unruly Africa Province. The lesson was simple—appreciate Caesar's artistic talents or suffer the consequences.

Everywhere around them were signs of the fire. In fairness, Sabinus reflected that Nero had actually managed the crisis well. He'd raised the required tribute all across Rome's client kingdoms to fund the rebuilding of Rome – better by far than imposing a tax upon an already suffering people. Suspending all military exercises on the Campus Martius (the field of Mars where young Romans learned to fight), he'd ordered up a sea of tents to house Rome's flotsam and thrown open the doors to Rome's public buildings to the homeless. Free bread for the hungry, and employment for all as the rebuilding began.

The execution for all these arrangements fell on Sabinus' narrow shoulders. Elected one of this year's aediles, he was in charge of public maintenance. So, though Nero's orders had been excellent, it was Sabinus who had seen them through.

Sabinus had thought this dawn stroll through the rubble was for Nero to view the reconstruction. Instead the young god was outlining the grand new domicile he'd conceived. “Not that the Domus Aurea will be a true domicile! No sleeping chambers, just room after room of delights: fountains, statuary, mosaics, frescoes, music, dance, mime! A place fit to recreate and fill the natural artist within! Open to everyone, of course. Rome's fault lies in too much engineering, not enough art!”

Thinking of engineering, Sabinus had a promise to keep. “Caesar, I have a proposal from one of our contractors, Quintus Flavius Gaudentius.”

Nero smiled. “Nepotism?”

Sabinus flushed. As the family name Flavius indicated, Gaudentius was not just a hungry young architect, but also a distant cousin. “Yes. He wants to experiment with building materials.”

“Pompeian bread?”

Sabinus' smile was nearly genuine. “Almost as hard. Concrete. He claims it will reduce building time by two-thirds.”

“If he lives up to that boast, I'll make him Caesar's personal architect!” Nero's pace suddenly slowed, and Sabinus traced Nero's darkening expression to several lowly denizens of the crossroads colleges. Officially a part of the cult of the Divine Augustus, these men existed off of low criminality and extortion. Those bully-boys had prevented anyone from fighting the fire in certain districts, beating anyone who tried. What could Caesar care about such low scum?

Yet care he did, for he said, “Tigellinus. See them off.”

“Yes, Caesar.” Gaius Ofonius Tigellinus was a venal soul with an appetite for power, having attained as much as a man outside the Senate possibly could. He was a member of the Ordo Equester, a knight. In the earliest days of Rome, cavalry were recruited from among those men who could supply their own horses, and so being a knight became synonymous with the highest rank of the First Class, just below senator. In Tigellinus' case, his membership in the Ordo Equester was particularly appropriate – he had achieved his office as Nero's Praetorian Prefect because he bred the most fantastic chariot horses.

Tigellinus served as Nero's right hand, carrying out deeds that might revolt any other man, always striving to surprise Caesar with cruel and perverse innovations. Rumours regarding the fire swirled about him, as well. Oddly, just when they had all thought the blaze contained, it had broken out afresh – in Tigellinus' palace.

As the white-clad Tigellinus marched over to disperse the criminals, Nero noted Sabinus' look of surprise. “You know them, Titus Flavius?”

Sabinus answered carefully. “Yes, Caesar. I've encountered them several times this year. Rigging scales, selling 'protection' and the like.”

“And they were in my company during the fire,” observed the god.

Sabinus hadn't said so. Nor would he now. “Were they? I was much engaged.”

Nero smiled. “Even villains, Sabinus, have their uses.”

Sabinus was not a fanciful fellow, but in that moment he was certain the rumours were true. Even if Nero had not started the fire, the new god had fanned it until two-thirds of the city had vanished in flames. Allowing Rome to be rebuilt from Caesar's pure brain.

Even for a man without imagination, Sabinus found that a terrifying prospect.

* * *

Startled, the scribe's stylus skidded across the wax and Marcus scampered away from the Tullianum door just as several smart-looking Romans approached.

Inside the cell, Symeon was near the end of his tale when the new arrivals entered to escort Saul to his execution.

“We won't die together?” asked Symeon.

“Apparently not,” said Saul. “I, for one, am grateful. I do not think I could endure the sight of you on the cross.” He paused, and then said, “I wish I had known him in life.”

“You never met our lord,” said Symeon. “But you knew him.”

Another man might have smiled. Saul frowned. “I believe that's the kindest thing you've ever said to me. Tell me again there is nothing to fear.”

“There is nothing to fear. Remember that, and let it be.”

“Let it be.” They embraced, then Saul was marched away, leaving Symeon in the custody of his two jailers. “Well, Processus, Martinianus – shall we?”

The Roman called Processus hesitated. “Before you go—today is the festival of Fontus. The god of wells and springs. It makes me think of what you said, the custom of your lord to wash away ill deeds. I…would like to be washed clean of this day. Of your death.” Martinianus murmured agreement.

Symeon shook his head. “It is more than that, I fear. To be washed clean in the eyes of the Lord, you must accept Him as the one and only. No more Fontus. No more Jupiter. Just Him.”

“I do accept Him,” said Martinianus at once.

“And I,” echoed Processus.

Pleased, Symeon could not imagine a worthier way to spend his last Moments. Always better doing good than talking of it. “We must be quick about it.”

In the ancient days of the Roman kings, the Tullianum had been a cistern, and water still burbled below. A ladder was fetched and the three men descended. Surrounded by the bones of Rome's enemies, Symeon performed the baptismal ritual as he had done so many times before. Then, ascending the ladder, he followed the converts out into the October air, across the Tiber River to a field named for an ancient city, long vanished. This was the Campus Vaticanus.

For years the Vatican had been empty, ager publicus, available to the public. But Rome was ever-growing, and Gaius Caesar had begun construction of a racetrack around the field. Nero had finished it, and with the destruction of the Circus Maximus, this was now the central gathering place for spectacles and sport.

Nero's Circus.

* * *

Four sets of mass executions were slated for noon, all in different parts of the city, allowing every Roman to experience the proper vindication. For these Hebrews, it was said, had caused the Great Fire. So today they would be made to pay. Dubbing this The Great Catharsis, Nero devised the punishments himself.

On the Aventine Hill, the condemned were doused with oil and lit with torches, the crowd taunting them as they ran a deadly race among the charred ruins.

On the Quirinal Hill, savage boars were released to tear the sacrificial flesh, a cruel jest for people to whom pork was anathema.

On the Campus Martius, dispossessed citizens were invited to cast stones into a crowd of Jews. They aimed at eyes, teeth, joints and loins – eager for vengeance, the mob was not after death, but suffering.

Saul was escorted to a spot within sight of the grove atop the Caelian Hill. Closing his ears to the jeering masses, he knelt with several others. The axe passed through his neck almost without resistance. Mouth still moving in prayer, his severed head struck the ground and bounced three times. By the time it came to a rest, a bronzed sheen had passed over the eyes of Saul of Tarsus.

* * *

The most visible execution was saved for Symeon. As leader of the Hebrew sect accused of masterminding the inferno, he was to die alone, under the eyes of Caesar himself.

Martinianus and Processus led their prisoner to the inner field of the Circus, where a massive Aegyptian obelisk of red marble stretched skywards. Beside it, an engineer waited beside a polished wooden cross that lay flat on the earth.

Symeon was stripped naked, causing the crowd to jeer at the peculiar mutilation Hebrews ritually performed upon themselves. A hush fell as Nero, in his role as Princeps Senatus, leader of the Senate, rose in his private box to make a speech. The words were mostly lost on Symeon, whose Latin was not entirely fluent, but he did recognize a few words and phrases. Judea. Incendium. Perfidia. Chrestiani.

Then it was time. Processus wept as Symeon stretched himself upon the cross. “What are you blubbering about?” demanded the engineer as he placed an eight-inch iron spike in the center of Symeon's palm. There was a sharp rap of the hammer and Symeon jerked, but he kept his teeth firmly shut as the spikes were driven home – one for each hand and a long one that rent both his ankles. But when they moved to lift him, he said, “Please. I am not worthy.”

“I agree,” growled the engineer. “Even a slave's death is too good for you.”

Symeon turned to his two Roman converts. “I beg you, not upright. I am not worthy to die as he did.”

The engineer scoffed. “What other way? Upside down?”

Closing his eyes, Symeon nodded. “That will do nicely.”

The engineer protested, but Martinianus and Processus were insistent. Reluctantly the engineer obliged and Symeon was hoisted with his head pointing down. The pain as they lifted him into place was sharp and surprising. Dirt was packed into the post-hole, along with wooden wedges to keep the cross upright. A careless shovel covered Symeon's face in the dry earth. Processus quickly knelt and wiped the dirt away.

Trumpets blared and the races began. Symeon heard the chariots thundering past him, but already his vision was blurring. He could no longer hear the spectators.

The last thing he saw was a wayward stone, dislodged by the digging of the post-hole. Across the stone, a grasshopper was resting, its legs folded as if in prayer.

A prayer upon a rock.

To the grasshopper he said, “Thank you, my lord.”

* * *

In the imperial box, Nero cheered the racers so fiercely his voice threatened to break. This was no common race. Today, the Ides of October, was the race of the October Horse, where the best war-horses in Rome were raced in pairs. Of the winning pair, the right-hand one was ritually slaughtered by the special priest of Mars, symbolically offering up the very best that Rome owned to the gods.

As the racers completed the first of seven laps, the gaming officials in the center of the ring used long poles to flip over a metal dolphin suspended upon a rod. Moments later a metal egg was placed in a cup, marking the first turn of the next lap. Seven eggs, seven dolphins, then the race would be over.

It was certainly nearly over for the Jew in the center of the ring. Sitting beside Nero Caesar, his wife Poppaea was making a scene. She was known to be sympathetic to the Jews, and even liked to pretend from time to time to be Hebrew herself. Now she wept fiercely, clawed at the air and her own skin – but not her beautiful face. Grief had its limits.

Turning on her cushioned seat, she held out her arms to her personal guest, a handsome young Hebrew priest. “Yosef! Yosef, tell me your God will forgive us!”

Yosef ben Matityahu pressed his lips tight, framing his reply. He had come from Jerusalem to plead on behalf of four men condemned by the bigoted, pecunious governor of Judea. Introduced to Caesar's wife by the Hebrew actor Alliturus, Yosef had appealed to her altruism, seduced her to his cause with his low, musical voice. His four men were released, and for a few weeks he had strutted through Rome's Hebrew communities as a great man.

His pitiful success was now dwarfed by today's immense loss of life. Yet in this mass slaughter, Yosef saw not hatred of Hebrews, but rather a love of violence. Yes, there were epithets and slurs that were particular to the Jews, but tomorrow it could be the Britons, or the Parthians, or the Germans. The foe, Yosef understood shrewdly, was only an object of the pageant of blood, not its cause.

“If this is justice, then the Lord will approve,” answered Yosef carefully – he was within earshot of the ruler of the world, and did not fancy joining his fellow Hebrews in death. “But the Lord reserves vengeance for Himself.”

Nero turned sharply, and Yosef blanched. He had never yet spoken to the short, blond god-on-earth, never even been in his presence.

But Nero was smiling. “That's just right. Vengeance is reserved for us gods.”

Drying her eyes, Poppaea grinned and blew her husband a kiss. Theirs was a tempestuous relationship, and she might just as easily have struck him.

As Nero returned to watching the race, Yosef frowned. Somehow he had made Caesar feel better about slaughtering so many of his people.

Does that make me a traitor?

* * *

Some rows back from Caesar's private box, Sabinus listened as his elder son hooted for his favourite chariot team. His firstborn son was the third to be named Titus Flavius Sabinus, and so he was called Sabinus Tertius – Sabinus the Third. A normal fourteen year-old, alternately wild and insecure, Tertius was quite unlike the boy on Sabinus' other side. Named for Sabinus' dead wife Clementia, his younger son was called Titus Flavius Clemens.

Young Clemens was both a brilliant intellectual and a feckless wastrel. An idealistic cynic, a lover of language and uneasy thoughts, the boy was congenitally opposed to work, capable only of short bursts of excited exertion. Only twelve years of age, already his eyes bore the disillusionment of a man thrice his age. Most troubling to his Stoic father, Clemens was devoted to that lowest of art forms, the theatre.

Now, as everyone else watched the chariots, Clemens was staring at the crucified man in the inner field. “Will he die soon?”

“Very soon, I imagine,” answered Sabinus. “Quicker than if he were upright.”

“Good. He shouldn't suffer.”

Sabinus arched an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“He didn't start the fire,” said Clemens. “He's innocent. This is a Tragedy.”

Sabinus leaned warningly close. “Don't let Caesar hear you saying that.”

“Father, it was Caesar who—”

“Tace,” hissed Sabinus. “Shut your mouth. And don't believe everything you hear. Caesar was in Ancona when the fire broke out.” Clemens opened his mouth, but Sabinus quelled his son with a painful grip on the boy's knee. “Watch the race.”

The boy murmured obediently. Yet, unknown to his father, Clemens continued to surreptitiously watch the man hanging upside-down upon the cross. Death did not trouble Clemens. Nor did the idea of execution – the State had the right to eliminate its foes, just as a master had the right to take the life of a slave, or a father that of a troublesome child.

But just as the execution of a whole household of slaves had recently led to riots protesting a monumental cruelty, so too was this execution crueler than need be. They allowed the dying man no dignity at all. There was a famous passage from Homer that Clemens knew by heart:

It is entirely seemly for a young man slain in battle to lie mangled by the bronze spear, for in his death all things appear beautiful. But when dogs gnaw upon the gray head and whiskered chin of old men, exposing their naked loins, it is the most piteous thing we wretched mortals may behold.

Those words were at the center of every Roman. The idea of a good death. Pompey the Great had died well. So too the great Divus Caesar. Yet here was an old man, a white-bearded grandfather, bald as an egg on top, dying in as unlovely a manner as man could conjure. It was meant to humiliate the dying man, but Clemens felt as if the humiliation were his own.

A man should die with a sword in his hand. If this man really was an enemy to Rome, then he should be allowed to take his own life or face a swift execution.

I shall die on my feet, blade in hand, decided Clemens, picturing the scene as though from a play. Death shall find nothing shameful in me.

* * *

Nero had strong reason to choose the Hebrews as his personal nemesis. His claim to godhood was one that only Jews could not accept. For them, there was but one God, a divinity they refused to name or even refer to. Taking it as a personal affront, the Divine Nero had set himself to humbling these Judeans, both as a nation and as individuals. These executions were only the beginning. Judea would bear the brunt of the taxation that would renew Rome once more. If they did not like it, they could dash themselves on the jagged rocks of Rome's legions.

Naturally, his beloved wife had taken a perverse liking for these troublesome peoples. Perhaps it was their defiance of him that attracted her. Whatever the cause, she was sympathetic to their plight – so far as she understood it.

As the racers thudded past in their bigae and the counters placed another egg in the cup, turned another dolphin's nose down, Poppaea Sabina ignored her husband's favourite sport. Instead she stroked Yosef's hand and asked him questions, allowing no time for answers. “I imagine Judea as a land of desolate beauty – all deserts and wind and empty spaces. Is it? Oh, I do hope that Cleopatra likes it there – I don't mean the Cleopatra, of course. No, my dear friend Cleopatra is wife of the new governor, Gessius Florus – have you met him? They were a bit out of funds, so I arranged for my Caesar to send Florus to Judea. A bit stodgy, I know, but one cannot choose one's husband – well, I did, didn't I? But I am exceptional.”

“In every way,” replied Yosef. He knew he was being used to make her husband jealous, but it was hard to stop his heart from racing. Poppaea was very beautiful, a natural and careless beauty that had men making fools of themselves for her. It was proof of Nero's godhead that he had found a Venus to be his bride.

But the words this Venus spoke helped keep Yosef's lust in check. He had, in fact, met Governor Florus. One would be hard-pressed to find a more odious villain in all the world. From the moment they arrived, Florus and his wife Cleopatra had made it clear that they despised all Jews. It had been Florus who had condemned the four priests Yosef had come to rescue. If sending Florus to Judea was the form of Poppaea's favouritism, better she had never heard of the place.

Clutching his hand, the goddess continued to prattle. “Now, tell me, Yosef, is it true about Hebrew priests? That they are given to fits of prophecy? O, tell me something that will come to pass!”

Yosef made his apologies, explaining that he had never been gifted with the Sight. Which was not entirely true. During fasts and cleanses, he had experienced visions. But his only prophecy was one he dared not utter: that Caesar was sowing a crop of hate that would spring up to consume Rome itself.

* * *

The races ended when the rains came. “Jupiter! What good is it being a god when the great god sends his rain! Sabinus, with me!” In a foul temper, Nero left his wife to flirt with her pet Jew while he was carried in a covered litter across the river. Sending both his sons home, Sabinus dutifully followed Caesar.

They attended the sacrifice of the October Horse under a drizzling veil or rain that blotted out the sky. But the omens were fine, so the animal was slaughtered, stabbed with a spear and then beheaded. The head and genitalia were removed. While the citizens of Rome's two poorest districts vied in a vicious game of sport to gain possession of the head, the genitals were rushed to the Regia, the ancient office of kings and priests, to sprinkle blood on the sacred hearth of Rome. Later they would be burned by the Vestal Virgins and baked into cakes to celebrate the anniversary of Rome's founding.

None of this mended the mood of Caesar, who normally grinned to see blood spilled and men fighting. But Nero was a great lover of horses, and did not like to see such a magnificent animal slaughtered. When the sacrificial axe had fallen, misting the air with blood, Nero had been seen to weep angry tears.

Upon entering his domicile, Nero's spirits were restored by the sight of Zenodorus, the Greek sculptor. Shaking off the stray droplets of rain and blood that peppered his hair, Nero rushed forward. “Is it done? The model?”

“Indeed,” said the Greek, his pleasure in his own creation masking his distaste for his patron. “If you will follow me to the workroom.”

In moments they were all examining the Greek's creation. Half the size of a man, carved from soft wood, the model depicted Nero as Apollo, the personal god of the Divine Augustus. Nero meant to place himself as a god over Julius Caesar's own heir.

Circling the model of his own likeness, Nero began to frown.

“Is something amiss, Caesar?” The query was hopeful. Zenodorus had been literally dragged from his native land to serve this boy-god. If his work was unappreciated, he might be let go.

“It's very good.” Nero pursed his lips. “Too good! It looks every inch like Apollo. Anyone seeing this will think of Apollo first, me second. And that. Won't. Do!” With the suddenness of inspiration, Nero rounded on Sabinus. “When I had my public audience with King Tiridates, he hailed me as some god of theirs.”

“Mithras,” supplied Sabinus at once. “The Parthian warrior god. They say he commands the sun, much like Sol Indiges, with aspects of Hercules Invictus. My uncle—”

Nero's gaze darkened. “Yes? What does the old Muleteer say?”

Flushing, Sabinus continued. “He says that Mithras has become very popular among our legions in the East.”

This news quelled Nero's anger. It was irresistible. The springtime visit of submission from the Armenian king, brother to the Parthian king, had left Nero as enamoured of Eastern mysticism as his wife was of Judaism. Combined with the love of the legions, Nero's next command was a foregone conclusion. “Zenodorus, I want to see another model, one with me as this Mithras!”

Zenodorus masked his disgust with a deeply obsequious bow. “As you command, Caesar.”

Nero was already out the door. Lingering behind, Sabinus saw the frustrated Greek sculptor lift chisel and hammer. With one sharp blow he struck Nero's face clean from Apollo's frame. It landed on the floor, facing the sky.

Face turned upwards, thought Sabinus. An ill omen if ever I saw one.

* * *

Marcus arrived at the appointed place well after his time. He passed the door with the chalked sign and saw only three others waiting for him, kneeling in prayer. “Where is everyone else?”

“We are the only ones,” said one of the men, a Roman with a long face. “The others are too frightened to meet.”

“Or else too dead,” said a Judean with a scar that stretched from his right ear to his nose. “And even if they had come, you're late.”

Marcus shed his waterproof cloak. “I know it, Seth. But I wanted to stay at the Circus until I was sure—”

He glanced at the two women in the room, a young lady and her mother. The one had a mournful beauty for one so young. But it was her mother's voice that broke their hearts as she tonelessly said, “He is dead, then.”

“Yes. I'm sorry, Abigail, Perel. He is dead.” Marcus refrained from saying how he had died. Doubtless they would hear soon enough.

“The body?” asked the horse-faced man.

“I saw where they threw it,” said Marcus, catching himself only after he saw Abigail wince. “My apologies. He'll have a proper burial, I promise. Saul, too. The niches are already prepared for their ossilegium.” This was the Hebrew practice in which the deceased's body was placed in the open air of a tomb for a whole year. Then, once the body was decayed, the bones were collected and placed in an ossuary, a special vessel for that purpose.

The girl called Perel watched Marcus steadily. There was something of greater import than her father's body. “And his memoir?”

Marcus patted the heavy satchel of wax tablets. “Completed just this morning. I think your father meant to say a little more, but…” He trailed off.

Perel stepped forward and went up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Marcus. You risked your life for it. Whatever is missing, Seth and mother will supply.”

Marcus did not wince at the kiss, but only because he had steeled himself. As she stepped back, the lamplight revealed a half a lovely face – a sharp brow, almond eyes, a full mouth. But the other half hung slack, leaving the left side of her face tragically down-turned. It was as though she had peeked at the face of the Divine and been forever scarred.

Perel turned and knelt across from the horse-faced Roman. “Marcellinus, I was instructed that, should this day come, he wanted you to lead us forward. In place of my father, you must be father to us all now.”

Taken aback, Marcellinus gestured to the scarred man. “Surely Seth is the better choice. He's the last of the original—”

“Last, but far from best,” interrupted Seth. “Symeon knew this was true.”

Marcellinus drew a deep breath. He had first been a disciple of Saul, and come late to the word of Symeon. But he also had just enough pride to want the task, and enough sense to see what it would mean to have a native Roman leading them. “Very well. Though my shoulders are far too narrow for it, I will don Symeon's mantle. A giant's robe on a dwarf,” he added.

“Perel, Abigail,” said the scarred Seth with urgency, “now that is settled, we three must hurry back to our master. We cannot risk losing either of you.”

But before they would consent to leave, the women insisted upon hearing Symeon's last words, captured in the wax of Marcus' tablets. When Marcus came to speak of Symeon himself, Abigail said, “You've changed his name.”

“He wished it,” replied Marcus.

“I know. His little names for us all. Petronella. Perpetua. But they still sound strange to me.” Abigail wet her lips, and tried speaking it aloud. “Petros. Petrus. Peter.”

Marcellinus smiled. “I suppose we should change Saul into Paul.”

Seth snorted. “He always did try to match Symeon's every step.”

Perel bowed her head. “Let it be. Peter and Paul.”

Marcus finished reading aloud the last piece of good news Peter had delivered, written down in wax by the hand of Marcus.

The Gospel of Mark.

Part One The God of War

“SWIFT THE FLIGHT OF FORTUNE'S FAVOURS.”

- SENECA

I

ROMA, ITALIA 12 DECEMBER 66 AD

“Perel! Where is the girl?”

Abigail was working in the rear yard of the house on the Esquiline Hill when she heard her daughter's name called. At once she rose from the far side of the well, where she had the master's toga stretched across a stone to dry as she applied the whitening chalk. “Domina? May I help?”

Spying Abigail, the mistress of the house frowned. “I'm going out,” said Domitia Longina, “and I wish Perel to accompany me.”

Abigail's expression was one of helpful subservience. But her anger must have radiated, for Domitia's eyes narrowed as if she'd been rebuked aloud. Abigail lowered her gaze. It would never do for a slave to insult a senator's wife, let alone the younger daughter of the great general Corbulo.

Domitia had inherited her father's martial temper, married to a feckless indolence that made her dangerous. “Where is she?”

“I believe she is cleaning the master's tablinum, domina,” replied Abigail.

Domitia brightened a little. The mistress liked when Perel was thrust under her husband's nose, dangling bait before him and daring him to swallow it. Disdainful of the man she had been forced to marry, Domitia made it her practice to purchase female slaves that were too old or too hideous to consider bedding. A measure of revenge.

Abigail was again thankful to the Lord for how He had marked her only daughter, protecting Perel's virtue at the cost of her vanity. A trade more than fair. Though young at twenty-one, Lucius Aelius Plautius Lamia Aelianus was a fastidious man, and the idea of disease repulsed him. Abigail herself had benefitted, as it was rumored she shared her daughter's illness. In the more than two years of their service under Domitia, neither had been touched. A small blessing, but a most welcome one.

The sole flaw in Domitia's plan was that her attendants were, of necessity, unbecoming. But this was no impediment to the bold Domitia, who quite enjoyed shocking the rest of the Roman world by walking out with slaves so hideous they made men recoil in horror.

Of them all, Perel was Domitia's favourite. For Abigail's daughter was still attractive, despite the slack muscles on the left side of her face. It was for this reason that Domitia was seeking Perel, to parade her once again as their mistress sashayed from one house to another, visiting other women her rank, if not her age. Domitia Longina was just one month shy of fourteen.

As always, Abigail tried to summon the kindness she knew the girl needed. Forced to wed to shore up her father's position in the Senate, Domitia had come to this house at the age of twelve. As the marriage was not firmly lawful until it was consummated, the moment she began to bleed Plautius had gritted his teeth and broken his wife's hymen, then banished her to her own suite of rooms, little caring if he ever saw her again. He had his alliance with the great general, which was all he desired from this marriage.

For the daughter of the famous Corbulo, great-great-grand-daughter of the Divine Augustus himself, it was hard to say which insult stung worse – the cold way Plautius had bound her to him, or the ease with which he had dismissed her afterwards. Domitia Longina knew her father needed Plautius to ward off a charge of treason. But that did not mean she was willing to be ignored. When she discovered he was taking his pleasure with slave girls, Domitia began an odyssey to remove his pleasure. She could not stop him from visiting whores in the city, but she was unwilling to let him know that kind of peace in this house. She attacked it with the vigour of her father the general and the vindictiveness of a girl her age.

Abigail was not Domitia's mother, not even of her culture. Still, it was hard not to feel motherly towards this wounded, prideful child, four years younger than her own Perel. The Roman girl deserved compassion and pity.

Domitia Longina's own family was focused on the mess created by her brother-in-law, the husband of Domitia's elder sister, who was trapped in yet another plot against Nero. This was the third time Corbulo's name had been linked with treason, and twice in two years the links had been close family – first the general's father-in-law, then his daughter's husband. Abigail thought that however lucky he was in war, Senator Corbulo was unlucky in marriages. A trait he had passed on to his daughters.

And who am I to judge marriages? thought Abigail reprovingly. I have never been married. Yet I at least I knew love, for all that love was a sin…

Realizing she was shirking her duties, Abigail began again working the chalk into the toga. Domitia frowned. “There isn't an election.”

Abigail bowed her head. “No, domina.” And even if there were, Plautius was still too young to hold office. By rights, he should not even be in the Senate, but these days those rules were winked at for the right families.

“Then why are you preparing that?”

“Master Plautius requested it.”

Domitia rolled her eyes, having desired gossip rather than a straight answer. But the girl knew better than to press Abigail, who was maddeningly reticent to engage in tittle-tattle. Instead she raised her voice. “Lucius Aelius! Lucius Aelius!”

She went on shouting until her husband's steward arrived. “May I help you, domina?”

Domitia Longina glared at the Greek freedman. “I wasn't calling you, Nikandros. I wanted my husband. Lucius Aelius! Lucius Aelius!”

Far from eager to involve herself, Abigail knelt again to her duty, working the chalk into the fabric of the toga while the steward tried to calm the master's wife. But Domitia refused to be calm. By now the neighbors on each side were certainly hearing the din from the walled yard.

It was likely this that brought Plautius stalking from his office. “Tace! You sound like a bawling child. Perhaps instead of maids, I should hire you a nurse.”

Domitia ignored this. “Why are you having your toga whitened?”

“Never you mind.”

“I'll keep shouting.”

Plautius drew near. “Be warned. I am not a servant, afraid to take a hand to you. You are my wife, and know a wife's duty.”

“How can I do my duty if I don't know what you're planning?”

“By being calm, modest, and keeping your mouth shut. I do not have the time to indulge the whims of willful children.” Plautius turned to go.

“I'll scream,” said Domitia. “I'll pretend you're beating me.”

“The neighbors would applaud,” retorted Plautius. Yet the threat stopped him. “If you must know, your father ordered it. He said there is some news just arrived from the East that will cause a stir.”

“What news?”

“He didn't say. But there will be a meeting of the Senate tonight, and perhaps an election tomorrow.”

“Election for what? Does that means someone has died?”

“Or been disgraced,” added Plautius darkly.

That made his wife stop and think. “Not father…”

Hands whitened to the elbow, Abigail glanced up. This was a fear that shook the whole household on a regular basis. What would happen to them if the mistress' father were charged with treason? It meant interrogation, even torture, to learn if anyone had heard anything incriminating. And slaves could be tortured with impunity.

“I don't know,” said Plautius, and he became remotely kind, resting a hand on his little wife's shoulder. “I don't think so. That was not the tenor of his note. Rather something has happened, and we must replace someone with a suffectus.” This was a temporary magistrate, elected to fill out another man's term. “Your father holds no office at present, so it can hardly be to replace him. Or me,” he added with a wry smile.

Domitia nodded, not seeing her husband's kindness, but taking relief in his words nonetheless.

At that moment Abigail saw Perel entering the yard. As ever, the world seemed brighter when her daughter was present. If my life has been a sin, why did the Lord bless me with such a pearl? To her mind, Pearl was a better name than Perel. But even that was better than the girl's given name, Petronella. If there had been one thing that frustrated Abigail about the love of her life, it was his sense of humour. If he was to be renamed after a rock, his family would be rocks as well. Petronella for his daughter, and Perpetua for his –

Mistress. I was his mistress. He called me wife, but we both knew what I was. His mistress. Which is as much to say, his whore. Yet I look at her and know I would not change a thing.

Except perhaps coming to Rome, thought Abigail grimly. Before, I was just a sinner. Now I am a slave.

Perel walked up to Nikandros and whispered in his ear. Then she stepped back as the steward addressed Plautius. “Domine, your father-in-law has called.”

At once the fourteen year-old Domitia went tearing off, calling out, “Tata! Tata!” Plautius was more dignified, but he did employ a speedy gait to meet the aging general. Nikandros followed his master, leaving Abigail and Perel alone in the peristyle garden.

They had nothing to say to the events around them. But for mother and daughter, time together was precious. “May I help you with that, Mama?”

“You'll get chalk all over you,” replied Abigail. “The mistress wishes to go out this afternoon.”

“I can change.” Perel knelt beside her mother and took up a fistful of chalk. They toiled together, working the dust into the oblong sheets of thick wool, careful not to white out the broad purple stripe along the edge that marked the wearer as a senator.

“Seth says Linus is hosting the next prayer meeting,” said Perel softly.

“Marcellinus,” corrected Abigail.

“It is the name he has chosen.”

Abigail shook her head. “I shall never be used to the informality you young people use.”

“Mama, even father changed his name.”

“No,” said Abigail stubbornly, “he took a title. It is different.”

Perel rolled her eyes, but only a little. “For Linus, it is a title. He doesn't want to sound Tuscan, like his name. And it offers protection. If we refer to him as simply Linus, no one will connect it with Marcellinus.”

Abigail saw the sense in this. “So long as you stop calling him Papa.”

Perel shrugged, a teenager's habit. “It makes him happy. And he has taken up Papa's role. He is paterfamilias to us all.”

“It dishonours your father.”

Perel bowed her head, but was still young enough to want the last word. “I think it does honour him.”

“Quiet now,” said Abigail, hearing Plautius returning with his guest.

Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo entered the enclosed central garden without pause for breath. Fifty-nine years old, he was still trim and fit, and years of warfare on the Parthian border had turned his skin to leather. “…oh, that's not all! For some reasons unknown to man or god, after coming from Syria to aid the incompetent governor, that fool Cestius Gallus retreated from Jerusalem in poor order and allowed the Judeans to fall on his neck. The entire Twelfth Legion was lost.”

“No!” gasped Domitia, holding her father's hand like a child.

Chalky hands deep in the woolen folds, both Abigail and Perel stilled at the mention of Jerusalem. News from their homeland? And dire news, from the sound of it.

Corbulo shook his head grimly. “Yes. Gallus, that imbecile! Five thousand good legionaries, slaughtered. Those were my men! I trained them, knew them. And that's hardly the worst of it.” The old soldier took a bracing breath. “The Jews took their eagle.”

Seated beside her mother, Perel put her hands up to her mouth. Abigail sat as if turned to stone. Her countrymen had taken a Roman eagle? Were they mad?

“Ecastor!” Domitia was incredulous. “How could those savages do such a thing?”

Plautius was pale as ash. “Bolanus has called a meeting?”

Corbulo bobbed his head. “In an hour. We have to hurry. The days are growing shorter.” According to the laws of their religion, the Senate could conduct no business after nightfall.

“What will Caesar do?” asked Plautius.

Corbulo shrugged significantly. There was no telling what Nero would do. But after all their troubles, the accusations and whispers of treason, Corbulo was unwilling to speculate out loud. Instead he said simply, “We'll find out at the meeting. The senior consul is keeping information under tight control. Not that I blame him. All of Rome will be stirring with rumours, and he's refusing to feed them until he has read out Nero's letter to the whole Senate. But I know he's ordered the Temple of Janus opened, and we are to hold suffectus elections tomorrow for some open posts. So see your toga is pure white.”

Plautius glanced at Abigail and Perel, who went instantly back to their work. It was Domitia who said, “Janus? Does that mean we are at war?”

“It does,” said Corbulo, and there was an unmistakable relish in his voice. “And if we handle matters correctly, this war could be our salvation.”

Though a foreigner, Abigail understood at once what he meant. Despite being out of Nero Caesar's favour, Corbulo was still Rome's best general. Moreover, he knew the region incredibly well, having prosecuted a war against the Parthians just a few years earlier. With his Eastern contacts and the loyalty of the eastern legions, Corbulo was the obvious man to place in charge of this war.

The master of the house was beaming with imagined glory. Grandson of a famous cavalryman, Plautius longed to earn an equally great military name for himself.

As the two men prepared to walk to the Capitol, Domitia turned to Perel. “Ugh! Clean yourself, girl, then get my shawl. I'm walking to Verulana Gratilla's. Now!”

Clambering to her feet, Perel bobbed obediently and darted off to obey. Domitia spared a glance for Abigail, daring her to disapprove. But Abigail's face was stony as she worked the chalk.

Yet the moment Domitia had left the garden, Abigail paused to shudder in fear. She was a Jew. These were her people who had done this. It was the fire all over again. She could see it now. They would blame the Jews of Rome, hunt them down again. Only this time they wouldn't single out just one sect for destruction. It would be all Hebrews. Those clever enough to side with the Romans at the start, to offer funds or arms, would survive. Those, and the slaves.

For the rest, it would be even worse than before. Last time the Jews of Rome were innocent scapegoats, the sacrificial lambs for an accident that needed blame. Now they would suffer for what had been brewing for a hundred years. Some might even take up arms, feeling the time had come to fight for their faith, their homeland, their ancestors. Their God. The only God.

Abigail's fingers were numb, and it had nothing to do with the chill December air. The war with Rome had come at last.

II

Abigail's fears were entirely justified. Within an hour Rome's streets were thronged with furious citizens demanding Hebrew blood for the loss of the eagle. Touched by Caesar's own hand, the golden aquila was the symbol of a legion's luck. Better every man should fall than let their eagle be lost, and woe to any nation that dared take one.

In his father's home on the Quirinal, Titus Flavius Sabinus received the same urgent summons as Corbulo. Draped in his toga praetexta with its broad purple stripe along the edge, he joined his elderly father on the walk to the Forum, then ascended another of Rome's fabled seven hills, the Mons Capitolinus, towards the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus.

As they climbed the marble steps to the Capitol, Old Sabinus groused. “Why couldn't that fool Bolanus call the meeting in Mars? Or Bellona?” Holding the fasces this month, the senior consul had the choice of meeting places.

“Marcus Vettius is a little claustrophobic, pater,” observed Sabinus. “Jupiter has lots of space.”