Domitia

“My dear child, Vespasian is old – about sixty I think, and has but two sons, of whom Domitian is the youngest. The elder, Titus Flavius Sabinus Vespasianus has but a daughter. Do you not see? Do you not smell?”

“I do neither, mother.”

“More the pity. You sadly take after your father, who had no ambition. Give the old fellow ten years before he becomes a god; the eldest son, if the worst comes, may succeed and be Augustus for another ten, and then, – the second son, Domitian, will be prince. My dear, what opportunities! What gorgeous opportunities!”

“Opportunities for what?”

“For push, my dear, push to the purple. Your dear father, ah, well! We are not all made of the same clay.”

“Mother, that is precisely what fills me with dread. He will then be the eighth, for these adventurers of a few months do not count, – the new Nero.”

“But consider – the purple. My dear, do you remember how Valeria caught the dictator Sulla. She sat behind him in the theatre, and picked some flue off his toga. He turned round and caught her doing it. ‘Sir,’ said she, ‘I am but endeavoring to get to myself some of the luck that adheres to you!’ I could have loved that woman. It was so happy, so neat. That bit of wool drew Sulla and the Dictatorship to her. You, what a blunderer you are. You have offended Domitian, who may some day be greater than was Sulla, when you had it in your power by a word, a look, a dimpled smile, to win him, and with him the purple.”

“Mother, I do not covet it. You forget – I am promised to Lucius Ælius Lamia.”

“Oh! Lamia! He could be bought off with a proconsulship.”

“I do not desire to be separated from him. I love him, and have loved him since we were children together.”

“Well, you have done for your chances. If I surmise aright, the young man entertains a great grudge against you.”

At that moment Eboracus came in.

“Madam,” said he, “the Illyrian legions have entered the city, under Primus, and there is fighting in the streets. The people on the housetops cheer on this side or that, as though they were at a show of gladiators.”

“Well – those things happen. We shall know for certain which shall be uppermost, and if fate favors Vitellius – Then, daughter, I shall not scruple to give the young man up.”

The condition of the capital was frightful. Vitellius had called in levies from the country to support him, and the prætorian soldiers stood firm. But many men of direction were with the partisans of Vespasian, who advanced steadily over the bodies of the troops opposing them. Fifty thousand persons lost their lives in these eventful days of the Saturnalia.

The legions under Primus succeeded in recapturing the Capitol, which was still smoking, and pushed forward into the Forum.

Meanwhile, Vitellius, in the Palatine palace, a prey to irresolution, had filled himself with wine, and then fled along with his cook and pastrycook to his wife’s house on the Aventine. Then deceived by a false report that his troops were successful, he returned to the Palatine, and found it deserted, but a roar of voices rose from the Forum below, and from the Capitol the cries of the legionaries were wafted towards him along with the smoke.

He hastened to collect all the gold he could lay his hands on, stuffed it into his cincture, assumed an old ragged suit, and then again attempted to escape; but now he found every avenue blocked. Filled with terror he crawled into the dog-kennel where the hounds, resenting the intrusion, fell on him and bit his neck and hands and legs. But now Vespasian’s soldiery invaded the palace, and a tribune, Julius Placidius, discovering the bloated, bleeding wretch, drew him out by the foot, and he came forth thus, his hands full of dirty straw, and strands adhering to his hair and garments. A howling rabble at once surrounded him, leaping, jeering, throwing mud and stones; a few soldiers succeeded in surrounding him. His hands were bound behind his back, and a rope passed about his neck. Thus he was dragged through the streets an object of insult to the people. Some struck him in the face, some plucked out his hair. In the Forum the rabble were breaking his statues and dragging them about. One ruffian thrust a pike under the unfortunate prince’s chin and bade him hold up his head. Then said Vitellius: —

“Thou, who thus addressest me – a tribune thou art, remember I was once thy commander!”

Thereupon a German soldier, desirous of shortening his misery, struck him down with a blow of his sword, and in so doing cut off the ear of the tribune who had insulted the fallen Emperor.

At once the body of the prince, from whom the life was not sped, was dragged to the Gemonian stair, a flight of steps down which the corpses of malefactors were flung, and there he was despatched with daggers.

Longa Duilia had been kept well informed as to all that took place.

No sooner was she assured that Vitellius was dead, than she rushed into the apartment given up to Domitian.

“Salve, Cæsar! As the Gods love me, I am the first to so salute you, son of the Augustus! Oh, I am so happy! And it might have been otherwise, but you they never would have reached save over my body.”

CHAPTER XX.

CHANGED TACTICS

The anarchy which had lasted from the 11th June, 68, when Nero perished, came to an end on the 20th December, in the ensuing year. In that terrible year of 69, three emperors had died violent deaths, and Rome had been in a condition of disorder on each occasion, and intermittent violence had lasted all the time. Men now drew a long breath, they were disposed to blot out the memory of those eighteen months of misery and national humiliation, as though it had not been, and to reckon the strong Vespasian as prince next after Nero. Indeed, on the morrow of the death of Vitellius, when the Senate assembled and decreed the honors of the former princes, they recited those of the first Cæsars, but ignored the three last who had perished within a twelvemonth, as though they had never been, and were to be forgotten as an evil dream.

That same day also, Domitian received the title of Cæsar, and was made Prince of the Youths, and Præfect of Rome in the place of his uncle, who had been murdered.

That day, also, Mucianus arrived with the Syrian legions, and with plenitude of authority from Vespasian to act in his name.

To Duilia’s vast delight Domitian did not forget his obligation to her, but paid frequent visits to her house, and it was a matter of pride to her to have his attendant lictors standing outside her door, as in former days.

When he came, she made a point of summoning her daughter, and requiring her to be present during the interview. But she could not make her speak or compel her to graciousness of manner towards the visitor.

The young prince’s eyes watched the girl with question in them, but he addressed all his conversation to the mother.

Longa Duilia did her utmost to disguise her child’s incivility, attributed it to shyness, and used all her blandishments to make a visit to her house agreeable to Domitian.

At length, the irksomeness caused by Domitia’s irresponsive manner seemed to satisfy the mother that she did more harm than good in enforcing her attendance, and she ceased to require the girl to appear.

Some months passed, and Domitia had not given a thought to Glyceria, and her offer to revisit the sick woman, when, all at once, in a fit of weariness with all things that surrounded her, and a sense of incapacity to find enjoyment anywhere, she started from her languor to bid Eboracus go forth, buy honey-cakes and toys, and accompany her on a visit to the Suburra.

As she was on her way, Domitian came by with his lictors and other attendants. Since his elevation from poverty and insignificance to ease and importance, he had acquired a swagger that made his manner more offensive than before in his phase of cubbishness.

He at once addressed her, for though veiled he recognized her.

“May I attend you? I have at the moment nothing of importance to occupy me.”

“I am bound for the Suburra.”

“For the Suburra! What can take you into the slums of Rome?”

“I am going to see the wife of Paris, the tragic actor.”

“Oh! the wife of the actor, Paris,” with a sneer.

“I said so – the wife of Paris the actor,” she withdrew her veil and looked him straight in the eyes. He winced.

“And pray – is she a visiting acquaintance of the family?”

“She is our freedwoman. Paris was freed by my father likewise. Are you content? I may add that she has met with an accident and is crippled and confined to her bed.”

“Oh!” with a vulgar laugh, “and you are infected with the Christian malady, and go among the sick and starving.”

“I know naught of this Christian malady. What is it?”

“We have had the contagion touch us. There is my cousin Clemens, and his wife Domitilla, both taken badly with it. He is a poor, mean-spirited fool. He has been offered excellent situations, with money to be made in them, in bushels, but he refuses – will not swear by the genius of my father, will not offer sacrifice to the Gods. Such thin gruel minds I cannot away with. Were I Augustus, such as would not serve the Commonwealth should be sent to kick their heels in a desert island. These Christians are the enemies of the human race.”

“What, because they visit the sick and relieve the poor?”

“The sick are smitten by the Gods and should be left to die. The poor are encumbrances and should be left to rot away. But a man of rank and of family – ”