E-Book, Englisch, Band 7, 352 Seiten
Reihe: Vespasian
Fabbri The Furies of Rome
Main
ISBN: 978-0-85789-972-9
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
The heart-pounding bestselling Roman epic
E-Book, Englisch, Band 7, 352 Seiten
Reihe: Vespasian
ISBN: 978-0-85789-972-9
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Robert Fabbri read Drama and Theatre at London University and has worked in film and TV for twenty-five years. As an assistant director he has worked on productions such as Hornblower, Hellraiser, Patriot Games and Billy Elliot. His life-long passion for ancient history - especially the Roman Empire - inspired the birth of the Vespasian series. He lives in London and Berlin.
Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
CHAPTER I
SHE WAS DYING; there was no doubt about it in Vespasian’s mind as he looked down at his mother, Vespasia Polla. Late afternoon light, seeping through the narrow window above her bed, illuminated the small bedroom, simply furnished, that was to act as the starting point for Vespasia’s last journey. Her face, with skin the texture and hue of wrinkled tallow wax, was peaceful: her eyes were shut, her thin lips, dry and cracked, trembled apart with each irregular breath and her long, undressed grey hair lay spread upon the pillow, arranged so by one of her body slaves in order that there would still be feminine dignity in death.
Vespasian increased slightly the pressure on the frail hand that he held in both of his as he said a prayer to his guardian god, Mars, that the messenger he had sent to Rome had made good time and his brother and uncle would arrive before she had need of the Ferryman’s services; he promised a white bullock to the deity should this be so.
Vespasian felt a hand on his shoulder; he looked up to see Flavia, his wife of nineteen years, standing next to him.
His prayer had been so intense that she had entered the room without his noticing. Her make-up and jewellery were lavish and extensive; they were complemented by a high and ornate coiffeur and a crimson stola and saffron palla of the finest wool that allowed her comely form to be admired. Vespasian felt a twinge of annoyance at his wife for coming into a dying-chamber dressed as if she were about to entertain guests of the highest rank, but refrained from saying anything as he knew that dressing down would never have occurred to Flavia; instead he focused on family matters: ‘Are the boys still out with Magnus and his new hunting dogs?’
‘Titus is but Domitian came back with one of the hunting slaves half an hour ago sulking because Magnus had stopped him from doing something; what, I don’t know. He then pinched and scratched his sister.’
‘Domitilla’s had worse from him.’
‘She’s twice his age and soon to be married; she shouldn’t have to take that from a child of seven. I’ve given him to his nurse, Phyllis, she can restrain him, and I’ve promised him that you’ll give him the thrashing of his life once …’ Flavia trailed off knowing exactly what was preventing her husband from disciplining their youngest son immediately. ‘May Mother Isis ease her passing. Shall I send for the doctors again?’
Vespasian shook his head. ‘What can they do? Cutting out the swelling in her stomach will kill her quicker than leaving it in. Besides, she sent them away last time.’
Flavia could not resist a snort. ‘She always thought that she knew best.’
Vespasian gritted his teeth. ‘If you insist on carrying on a pointless feud with a dying woman, Flavia, it would be better to do so in the privacy of your own room and your own head. I am not in the mood, nor do I have the time, for women’s petty quarrels.’
Flavia tensed and took her hand from Vespasian’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, husband, I meant no disrespect.’
‘Yes you did.’ Vespasian returned his concentration to his mother as his wife left the room at an irritated pace; her footsteps faded into the courtyard garden beyond.
For a few days over forty-nine years now, Vespasia Polla had been a part of his life and, as he again squeezed her hand, he thanked her, for he knew that neither he nor his brother would have reached the consulship had it not been for her drive and ambition for her family. His father’s side of the family were respectable, rustic equestrians; Sabine in ancestry and accent. Vespasia, however, came from a family that could boast a senator who had reached the rank of praetor: her older brother, Gaius Vespasius Pollo. It had been that connection she had used to launch the career of her sons in Rome and it had been Gaius’ relationship with the Lady Antonia, niece to Augustus, sister-in-law to Tiberius, mother of Claudius, grandmother of Caligula and great-grandmother of Nero, that had propelled them into the mire of imperial politics in which they had managed to swim not sink – just. Both had reached the pinnacle of the Cursus Honorum, the succession of military and magisterial ranks that were the career structure for the élite in Rome, which was far more than most New Men from non-senatorial families could expect; indeed, Sabinus had progressed from the consulship to being a provincial governor and was now the prefect of the city of Rome. Yes, Vespasian reflected, rubbing the thin crown of hair that was all that remained on his otherwise bald head, Vespasia could be proud of her achievement for her family.
Yet there was one thing that she had left undone in Vespasian’s eyes: she was going to her grave with a secret; a secret almost as old as him. That secret had been enforced by an oath administered, at Vespasia’s insistence, to all who had been a witness to the incident – Sabinus, aged almost five, included. It had occurred at Vespasian’s naming ceremony, nine days after his birth and it had to do with the markings on the livers of the sacrificial ox, boar and ram; what these markings were, no one had been able to tell him because of the oath. He knew, though, that his parents had believed the marks prophesied his future for he had overheard them discussing it, in vague terms, as a youth of sixteen; but what was prophesied, he knew not. And now his mother was going to the shaded land beyond the Styx without releasing people from that oath. However, due to certain strange occurrences and prophecies that Vespasian had been subject to throughout his life, he had formed a reasonable idea of what the omens may have predicted for him all those years ago; and it was an idea that was as outrageous as it was implausible with the political settlement as it was and the Principate in the hands of one family.
But, should that line fail, what then? If the Emperor were to die childless whence would a new emperor come?
It had been to this end that Vespasian had been instrumental in bringing about a state of war, still continuing, between Rome and Parthia over the nominally autonomous kingdom of Armenia. The war was seen by the powers behind the throne as a good thing to help secure the young Emperor Nero’s position and Vespasian wanted Nero’s position to be secure; he wanted Nero to rule for some time because he had a suspicion, no, it was more than a suspicion, it was a feeling bordering on certainty, that Nero would run to excesses that would make the depravities of his predecessors seem as mere foibles to be shrugged off with indulgence. If that were to be the case then Vespasian doubted that Rome would tolerate another emperor from the same unstable family. And so to whom would Rome look to fill that position? The candidate would have to be of consular rank with a proven military record and there were many men in Rome like that, Vespasian included; but, Vespasian had reasoned, if it were to be someone like him then why not him?
And that was what Vespasia was taking to her grave: the confirmation, or not, of Vespasian’s suspicions; and he knew that even if she did regain consciousness he would never be able to get her to change her mind.
‘Master?’ A voice intruded into his inner thoughts.
Vespasian turned; his slave stood silhouetted in the doorway. ‘What is it, Hormus?’
‘Pallo sent me to tell you that your brother has arrived.’
‘Thank Mars for that. Have our finest white bullock prepared for sacrifice as soon as Sabinus and my uncle have seen my mother.’
‘Your uncle, master?’
‘Yes.’
‘There must be a misunderstanding; it’s just your brother arriving, your uncle is not with him.’
Although the atrium of the main house on the Flavian estate at Aquae Cutillae benefited from the underfloor heating of a hypocaust and, despite a raging log fire in the hearth, the chamber still felt chill after the warmth of Vespasia’s dying-chamber. Vespasian rubbed his arms as he followed Hormus across the floor, decorated with a pastoral mosaic illustrating the various ways that the family supported itself through working the land. Before they reached the front door, Pallo, the aged estate steward, came in from outside and held it open for Sabinus, dusty and dishevelled from travel.
‘Is she still here?’ Sabinus asked without any pleasantries.
Vespasian turned and fell in step with his brother. ‘Just.’
‘Well, just is good enough. I don’t think I’ve ever made the journey from Rome in such quick time.’
‘Did you leave Uncle Gaius behind you on the road?’
Sabinus shook his head as they passed through the tablinum, the study at the far end of the atrium, and then on out into the courtyard garden. ‘I’m afraid not; he wasn’t well enough to make the journey.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’
Sabinus looked at his brother as they paused outside Vespasia’s room, his eyes full of concern; although whether that was due to their mother’s imminent death or their uncle’s illness, Vespasian could not tell. ‘I’ll tell you after we’ve watched Mother …’ He left the sentence unfinished; they were both only too well aware...
