Vespasian said the good thing about the Golden House was that it was so amazing it took your mind off the appalling food and the length of the public dinners, some of which went on from noon to night. Also (said Caenis), it stopped you wondering what potions from the poisoner Lucusta the Emperor might have slipped into your drink.
This Emperor was not mad as Caligula had been mad. He was extravagant, vicious, self-obsessed, murderous, and vain. But Nero was in command of his wits. Caenis judged him the worse for it; he lacked any excuse of delusion or dementia.
It was two years after the Fire that his interests in chariot racing and public singing contests brought Nero to Greece. He was to maintain that only the Greeks appreciated his voice; that bore out many Romans' low opinion of the Greeks. After one abortive attempt to arrange a visit, which he canceled on some whim, he finally arrived to tour the main cities, which sponsored musical events. In fact he also toured those whose contests were not due that year, compelling the festivals to be brought forward to accommodate his appearance, whatever disruption it caused to the formal calendar.
By the time he came home he would have collected more than a thousand victory wreaths, including one for a chariot race in which he fell out and never even completed the course. Nero grew so adept at announcing his own victories that he even put himself down for the competition for heralds—which of course he also won. Greek judges demonstrated a keen understanding of imperial requirements. The Emperor was doing his best. He followed a rigorous professional training program. He lay down with weights on his chest to strengthen his voice. He complied with every rule of etiquette, suffered agonies of stage fright, and awaited the judges' verdicts with a solemnly bowed head even after it had become blatantly apparent what the verdict would always be.
Those who accompanied him entered the spirit too—if they wanted to avoid strict penalties. Everyone of consequence was expected to attend imperial recitals, and once they turned up they were forbidden to leave until the end. Spies were stationed to check not just who was there, but whether they appeared to be enjoying themselves. Caenis endured this better than most; apart from the fact she had a well-trained face, she chatted to the spies about their work. Others were not so adept at survival. Men were arrested climbing out of the stadium over the back wall. Women gave birth. People died; people pretended to have died in order to obtain the relief of being carried out.
It was, therefore, doubly unfortunate when a prominent member of the Emperor's own retinue displayed a clear reluctance to applaud. Sometimes at private functions he got up and left the room. Sometimes he never turned up in the first place. Even in Italy he had already been in trouble when he began to nod at one of Nero's earliest recitals and was only saved by a reprimand from a freedman who generously woke him up with a sharp prod.
But character will out. And at one of Nero's endlessly dreary public recitations in Greece, Vespasian went soundly to sleep.
THIRTY-FIVE
Vespasian was dismissed from court. They had to flee to the hills. As Titus said later, it seemed a drastic way to work up a good suntan ready for the desert.
In fact the situation was desperately serious, and Vespasian became unusually upset. In case he doubted what might happen, Nero had just recalled the great general Corbulo from Armenia, having him greeted the moment he landed in Greece with a suggestion that since he was about to be executed he might want to commit suicide. And that was the reward for too much success.
Faced with a harpist in a huff, Vespasian had tried to restrain himself, but after his disgrace there were splendid scenes outside the audience chamber, culminating with the overwrought Vespasian crying to a supercilious chamberlain, "What can I do? Where shall I go?"
"Oh, go to Hades!" responded the chamberlain. He was having a trying time arranging this tour without ludicrous ex-consuls maddening the imperial musician with sheer bad manners.
Vespasian ruled out Hades; he decided on a family holiday, which he grumbled would be just as bad. Knowing that his unguarded drowsiness had this time placed him in danger of his life—and could have damaged his son too—he whisked Caenis and Titus to a remote mountain village. The village was, however, not so remote that he would be out of reach of the court if anybody wanted him back.
* * *
They had a wonderful holiday, even though Vespasian was daily expecting Nero's order for him to commit suicide. Titus suffered the most, and was given to outbursts of mild frustration at breakfast: "Ah, Greece! Its monuments are fabulous, but its mountain villages are pretty poky! You should have been there with him, Caenis. He never nods off if he knows you're in the top tier keeping an eye on him. For one thing, he keeps turning around to wink at you."
Caenis listened for a moment to the clunk-clunking of the goat bells, the tireless cicadas, the sporadic whistling of shepherds in the distance and, nearer at hand, a few contented hens. "Titus, I am a music-lover! It was a dangerous fiasco, and I am not sure I could have kept my temper with anyone—including your fool of a papa. How fortunate that my uncharacteristic headache had compelled me to stay in my room."
Titus grinned happily. "Well, I knew he wasn't safe. I remember when I took up the harp myself, he told me that from then on I was on my own in life—and by the way, I never want to see another little dish of hard green olives."
"I've just served you some, my darling; eat them and be quiet. Vespasian, your son is teasing you."
Vespasian, who was reading a letter, grunted.
Titus ventured, more cautiously, "Father, I never really understood why you came on the concert tour. It was obviously an exercise in regal self-indulgence. We could have tossed dice on whether Nero offended you mortally, or you him."
Vespasian sniffed this time.
"Playing his part in public life," scoffed Caenis.
"By nodding off?" Titus guffawed. "Well! I'm going for a walk. Yet again." There was not much else to do.
"Give me a kiss, then," Caenis commanded.
Titus was on the point of leaving his couch, when there came a sudden commotion outside the dining room. Before anyone could move, through the doors from the terrace burst a terrified plough-ox that had broken its yoke and run amok. An aimless horn swept a table lamp to the ground with a sickening crash. Caenis, who was not keen on animals even in their proper place, stayed perfectly still. The ox dusted a shelf with the frowsy clump of its tail.
The room was small; the ox was huge. The servants who had been about to clear away breakfast all took to their heels. Caenis noticed that even Titus swallowed. Vespasian looked over the top of his letter; the ox snorted, then dribbled menacingly, as its frantic hooves scrabbled on the tiled floor.
"Hello, boy!" Vespasian greeted him. "Lost your way?"
"Oh, my love," scolded Caenis, "I wish you wouldn't invite your friends for breakfast."
The ox took one step farther into the room; she picked up a spoon, the only implement at hand. She wondered if smacking it hard on the nose would make it go away. They could hear the approaching, panicky voices of the tillers of Greek fields who had lost their angry but valuable animal.
"Dear heart," Caenis murmured seductively to Vespasian, "do tell us what to do."
"Trying to think of a plan," he mused. "Difficult logistics."
"Well, you're the country boy!" Caenis snapped.
"The poor creature's frightened," Titus sympathized.
"I'm frightened," said Caenis, "and I live here, so I take precedence! I'd like to go to my room and do a decent bit of sewing, so perhaps one of you men could be masterful and sort out this incident."