Was it to recall the girl Sybilla that I wrote that last chapter in such detail?
She was Sicilian. At first I took her for a prostitute and the moon-faced woman, whose name was Hippolyta, for her pimp or madam. The relationship was different and more complicated. Hippolyta had indeed found her on the streets, fallen (as Sybilla told me) in love with her, and bought her from the man who ran her. That was extraordinary enough. What was more extraordinary was that Hippolyta tolerated Sybilla's desire for men, though, as the girl told me, 'only one at a time'. She kept her mostly a sort of prisoner in the apartment, and Sybilla did not object. 'What is there out there,' she said, 'except the opportunity now and then to pick up a man? Now that I have you, for the time being, I've no need to go out.'
She was an inventive and delightful lover, all the more delightful because she despised and forbade any expression of emotion. I did with her all that I had longed to do to Domatilla. Sometimes, as I lay panting in her arms, damp skin against hot damp skin, her thick black hair over my face, I would see through the tresses the moon face of Hippolyta watching us. She never said anything, just looked, then turned away.
How strange that those two weeks of intense political excitement when the fate of Rome hung in the balance, my life perhaps with it, and the smell of blood hovered in the air, should have been for me days, too, of an equally intense eroticism. The other day, passing a stall where a merchant was selling spices, I found myself trembling. All at once I was a young man again, and did not know why, till, breathing in, I smelled Sybilla's body, which she never washed but sponged with an infusion of spices. That was real, as my other memories of her are not. What do they amount to? I can't even picture her face: only a little mole to the side of her mouth, just above a rather thick upper lip. And what else? The feel of her strong thick thighs as she wrapped her legs round me. I see Hippolyta's moon face more clearly than I see Sybilla's, though my lips and tongue ran over every inch of it.
Balthus lies among the hounds again. These memories of Sybilla revive my desire for him. It is as if by forcing myself on the boy I could regain what I found in congress with her – an absurd fancy.
1 shall write nothing of Sybilla to Tacitus, but she dominated my life in the days that followed.
One day I said to myself: does it matter who is Emperor so long as I have this?
Another day, Domatilla, in my mother's house, said to me, 'Is something wrong? You don't look at me as you used to.'
XXXV
Some would have us believe that in happier times men contended over principles, now for office and power alone. Not having lived in these golden days, I cannot tell whether our times are degenerate, or whether politics has ever been a business condemned to nastiness and brutality. You, Tacitus, as a learned historian, will be able to settle this unanswerable question.
I was a partisan of the Flavians, on account initially of my love for Titus and friendship with Domitian. Then I was inspired by the idealism of Titus' talk of the meaning of Empire. But can I acquit myself of selfish motive? Can I pretend that I was activated by love of my country or a desire for peace? And if I cannot, then can I suppose that those who deserted Vitellius for Vespasian – Caecina and Bassus first of all – had any such honourable motives? Is it not more probable that fear lest others should outstrip them in the fickle regard of Vitellius, and hope that their treachery would be well-rewarded, drove them to betray the man to whom they had sworn faith, when they suspected that his cause was on the way to being lost?
In the city we awaited news from the north, not knowing even whether battle was joined, or whether neither side dared to be the first to attack. Rumours abounded, were discounted, though men know in their hearts that rumour is not always wild; it is sometimes correct.
So, when it was reported that Antonius Primus, having defeated Vitellius' army before Cremona, had, being angered by the support that city had given to the enemy, permitted his soldiers to abandon themselves to the extremes of lust and cruelty, sacking the city, murdering the citizens, raping the women and boys, and finally setting fire to the buildings after four days of slaughter, some said the report was too horrible to be true, others that its horror could not have been invented. And, indeed, those who believed the worst were proved right, as is commonly the case.
The news was brought to Vitellius, who had retired for a few days to a villa in the woods of Aricia between that town and Lake Albano. There, it was said, he rested himself in the shade of his gardens. Like those beasts which relapse into torpor when sufficiently well-fed, he chose to forget past, present, and the fearful future. It required the news of the disaster at Cremona to rouse him from sloth.
But his first act on returning to the city was to deny the report which had brought him back.
Flavius Sabinus told me that the so-called Emperor's judgement was no better than his nerve.
'In concealing the gravity of his position,' he said, 'he is making it impossible to redeem the situation. He refuses to listen to any talk of the war. If anyone returns from the front with bad news, he either has him clapped into prison or put to death. He behaves as if nothing can be true unless he chooses that it should be.'
But, if Vitellius himself refused to look reality in the face, his partisans were alarmed by the rumours which his denial could not still. Thinking only of revenge, they sought out those who were believed to be traitors – though in the state of Rome then there could, honour being dead, be neither treachery nor true loyalty. Many innocent men, guilty of nothing but hope for a better future, were seized and put to death, or cut down casually in the streets. Flavius Sabinus himself dared not go abroad without an escort from the City Guard, and had doubts concerning their loyalty, though their mouths were stuffed with gold and their spirits raised with lavish promises of future bounty.
He frequently expressed anxiety concerning Domitian's safety, and could not trust my assurance that I had taken care of that. Yet he had no choice but to rely on my measures. He did not dare to keep the boy with him, for he knew that his own life was in danger every day, every hour, and that if he was arrested or cut down, then Domitian would be too. I assured him that the student friend with whom he was lodged kept the house himself and would not permit Domitian to venture forth. He scratched his head, and muttered that he hoped it was for the best, and confessed that he could think of no better plan.
'I dare not send him out of the city,' he said, 'for the Guards have set up road blocks and are interrogating every traveller. And I could not trust Domitian not to give himself away. If he survives, my brother will be eternally grateful to you. I'll see to it that he knows it is your work, for I am persuaded Domitian will never admit so much himself.'
I might, I suppose, have taken offence at his care for Domitian's safety and lack of concern for mine. But his indifference was venial: I was not his brother's son; I could take my chance.
Vitellius roused himself, or was roused by others. He entrusted the command of the Praetorians to his brother Lucius, no better in morals, but more energetic in manner. In what may have been intended as a gesture expressive of confidence, he even anticipated the elections, and nominated Consuls and other officers for several years in advance. He granted treaties, which he had no means of enforcing, to allies, and the rights of citizenship to provincials who could not enjoy them. He remitted tribute and even taxes. So, careless of the future, he scattered the resources of the Empire – all to win the plaudits of the mob, always impressed by the appearance of generosity. Some fools even purchased honours and offices, as if the prodigality of his gesture offered assurance of the permanence of his rule.
Then yielding to the demands of the soldiers, he even ventured into the camp. There, some (as I have heard) were dismayed by evil omens: a bull, for example, escaped from the place of sacrifice. Others, more perceptive or with a truer sense of reality, were still more dismayed by the conduct of their Emperor. For everything he said displayed his complete ignorance of warfare; he even had to enquire about how reconnaissance was carried out. Some said he didn't know the meaning of the word. Nor was his habitual drunkenness or the alarm he showed at every fresh piece of bad news likely to raise the morale of his troops. At last, having learned that the fleet stationed at Misenum had defected to the enemy, he abandoned the camp and returned to Rome. His brief impersonation of a commander had done him more damage even than his habitual indolence. Meanwhile, in the north, the fortunes of war tilted still more heavily against him. You will, Tacitus, from your other researches, and by means of further enquiries of any officers who took part in the campaign and who still survive, learn its details more accurately than you could from me. Afterwards I heard many tales of individual courage and prowess, and discounted most of them. I do not envy you your task of separating the grain of truth from the chaff of lies. To
