intercepted by a troop led by the tribune Julius Placidus. 'Here's trouble,' the centurion muttered.
I presented myself to the tribune, who knew my name, but was more immediately conscious of his own seniority. He congratulated me, perfunctorily, and announced that he was now assuming command. He ordered that Vitellius' hands be bound behind his back, to demonstrate that he was a prisoner. I told him of my intention, adding, as was my duty, that Vitellius claimed to have something of importance to say concerning the welfare of Vespasian. The tribune said, 'And you believed him?'
'Not necessarily but, in any case, that's irrelevant. He's a prisoner of the State.' 'As you say. I'll take charge of him.'
What could I do? It would have been unseemly to pursue my appeal further. I was outranked. Indeed, having no official position, I was outranked even by the centurion, who had deferred to me only on account of my birth and breeding, perhaps manner also. I could only trail in the rear, a helpless witness of a degrading spectacle, made more guilty by the look, full of despair and reproach, which the wretched Vitellius directed at me.
Then he was marched slowly from the hill of Emperors. The soldiers who flanked him on either side, kept, at the tribune's command, their swords drawn, and raised so that the points pricked the underside of Vitellius' chin. So he was compelled to keep his head high, and could not shrink from the disgrace of his situation. In this manner they descended the Sacred Way.
Only one incident disturbed the melancholy progress. A German soldier, one of Vitellius' personal guard (as was later confirmed) leaped from behind a column, his sword lifted above his head. It was, I believe, his intention to despatch his fallen lord, either in anger, more probably (as I choose to believe) from motives of pity: to save him from the further degradation that awaited him before death. But he was prevented. A legionary rushed on him. There was a scuffle. For a moment the German broke free. He swung his sword again, but, unable to reach Vitellius, succeeded only in slicing off the tribune's ear. Then two soldiers fell on him and sent him before his master to the darkness that beckons to us all.
A crowd had gathered, alerted as ever by rumour of what was happening, and surged round the little column as it entered the Forum. There were many who had cheered Vitellius a few days before. There were, doubtless, some who were among those who had compelled him to break the agreement he had made with Flavius Sabinus -that agreement which had assured him of his safety, prosperity and a tranquil old age. Now they howled curses at him; some threw dung, others mud or whatever came to hand. With his robes in tatters, his face and neck daubed with filth, his head still compelled upright by the points of the swords, he presented a spectacle that was as pitiable as it was revolting. But there is no pity in a frenzied mob. So Vitellius suffered. Once, and I believe once only, his lips moved, and he was able to speak. Later it was said that his words did not lack dignity. Yet I was your Emperor.' But I do not know whether this was indeed what he spoke, or whether someone put suitable words later in his mouth. I was not close enough to hear. It is just as likely that he uttered a prayer for mercy, though he was beyond mercy.
They led him in this fashion as far as the Gemonian Steps, where a few days earlier the body of Flavius Sabinus had been thrown. There they killed him, not in manly fashion with a single thrust of the sword, but slowly, with an accumulation of little cuts, until finally, the tribune, one hand clasping a cloth to his own wound, told the soldiers to stand aside, and himself hacked at Vitellius' neck till the head was half-severed from the body.
Then this was dragged to the Tiber and consigned to waters that already ran red with blood from the battles fought further upstream. So ended… What more can I tell you, Tacitus?
Nothing. I am glad to be rid of this task you set me, which I have acquitted painfully, with honesty and regard for truth. May you do as much in your History. I am sure it will be read when I am forgotten, for you are a great artist. I have never doubted that. I ask only that you pay me due honour in what you write and acknowledge my help. That will afford me a glimmering of immortality. What a vain desire!
You will know, of course, that Domitian, emerging from hiding, at once played the part of the Emperor's son in so haughty and imperious a manner that any who observed him then might have guessed how he would conduct himself when his own hour arrived. But there is nothing of value I can tell you concerning that. So, farewell, and may good fortune guide you in your work and life.
XXXIX
It is some weeks now since I sent my last dispatch to Tacitus. I hoped then that I had done with memories of my dead life. Yet I cannot let them go like waste and debris that float down the incurious grey river to the indifferent sea.
I left Rome as soon as I decently could after attending to my mother's funeral rites. Perhaps, if Domatilla had spoken then, she would have persuaded me to remain. In honesty, I doubt it. I was eager for new experience that might obliterate the horror of the past year. Such as I found confirmed the cynicism that the spectacle of Nero's heirs struggling for supremacy had bred in me.
Titus gave me a position on his staff. He offered me also a free choice from his troupe of boy dancers and was amazed, or pretended to amazement, when I declined his offer.
I still admired him, still felt a tenderness for him, no longer desired or loved him. I thought: this means only that I have grown up. I exchanged letters with Domatilla; hers were reticent, even banal. She said only one thing of note: that she accused herself of being the cause of my mother's death. I knew this not to be the case; nevertheless read in her words a growing distance between us. Other correspondents told me with what relish Domitian played the part of vice-Emperor, of how he boasted of his share in the Flavian triumph.
By Titus' side, I took part in the siege and capture of Jerusalem. I have written something of that already. Enough indeed: to dwell longer on it would give me nightmares, if sleep was not already denied me. We destroyed the temple of the Jews. I entered its Holy of Holies – and found it empty. I had supposed it would contain some revelation, some hint as to what the Jews believe to be the meaning and purpose of life.
Now I think that it may have done so: proclaiming that there is neither meaning nor purpose. Balthus disputes this; his loving god assures him of both. He still tries to convert me. I ward him off, telling him that the Christians being a proscribed sect, he is dependent on my ungodly protection. The irony escapes him. Perhaps I should supply him with a wife. When I suggested this, he shrank from the proposition. He finds female flesh and the smell of women repulsive. Strange. He is committed to chastity; there are some, he tells me, who have made themselves eunuchs for his Christ's sake.
I took part in the triumph granted to Titus and Vespasian. Ostensibly the Senate accorded them this honour on account of their victory in the Jewish War. In reality Vespasian himself demanded it, and knew that he was actually celebrating his seizure of Empire and the deaths of tens of thousands of his fellow-citizens, some on his behalf, others resisting his usurpation of power.
I rode on a bay horse alongside Domitian who was mounted on a white stallion. As we approached the Sacred Way, it shied and all but threw him.
At dawn Vespasian and Titus had emerged from the palace, both crowned with laurel and dressed in purple. They proceeded to the portico of Octavia, sister of the Divine Augustus and unhappy wife of Mark Antony. The Senate, magistrates, and leading equestrians waited for them there. Vespasian gave the signal for silence which, in a little, was obeyed. Then, covering his head with his cloak, he rose to mutter the immemorial prayers. They were almost inaudible, muffled by the cloak and his provincial accent. Titus repeated them after him, more clearly but no more comprehensibly, since these prayers are in an antique dialect that no one now understands. I later asked Titus whether he had enquired of the priests if they could furnish him with the meaning of the words he had spoken. He laughed: 'Dear boy, what does it matter?'
Having recited the prayers, they assumed their triumphal robes and sacrificed to the gods, and then commanded the procession to be set in motion. They rode together in a chariot, and Domitian and I were in the first rank behind them. The spectacle was magnificent. That was undeniable. No expense had been spared, and the war was depicted in numerous ingenious representations.
Now you saw a prosperous country, far more fertile than Palestine, being laid waste. Now there were scenes showing whole armies of the enemy being slaughtered – armies far more formidable and better equipped than the miserable Jews had been – there they were shown in flight, there being led in chains into captivity. There were shows of cities and their defenders being overcome by the legions swarming the ramparts and walls. Blood was
