Текст книги "Empire"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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“Yes. I took a brief trip down to Herculaneum and Pompeii, and then across the bay to Baiae. I may have found a rather lucrative position in the home of a very wealthy garum maker. His villa is built right next to the manufactory, which stinks of fermenting fish, but the house has a spectacular view of the bay, and the brat I’ll be teaching is not a complete barbarian.”

“But how could you bear to leave the city?” asked Martial.

“Granted, Campania isn’t Roma,” said Epictetus, “but anyone who’s anyone in Roma has a second home on the bay, so interesting people are always coming and going. The social scene is the same as in Roma, but along with dinner parties they have boating excursions and banquets on the beach. Some people live there year-round, like your friend Pliny.”

“You dropped in on him, as I suggested?” said Martial. “Good old Pliny, a bit of a bore but always good for a drop of wine and a bed for the night.”

“I didn’t find him boring at all. In fact, he told me about some rather odd things going on down there.”

“What sort of things?” said Lucius.

“Strange phenomena,” said Epictetus.

“Oh, Pliny loves that sort of thing,” said Martial. “Collects every odd fact in the world and puts them in a book.”

“He’s rather worried about the earthquakes they’ve been having.”

“You’ll have to get used to earthquakes if you move to Campania,” noted Epaphroditus. “There were a couple of big ones back in Nero’s reign. You must remember, Epictetus, you were there with me when Nero performed for the very first time in public, in Neapolis. An earthquake struck the theatre in the middle of his song – the ground surged like a stormy sea – but Nero just kept singing. No one dared to get up! Afterwards, he told me that he considered the earthquake a good omen, because the gods were applauding him by shaking the ground. The moment he was finished, everyone got up and ran for the exits. And no sooner was the place emptied than the whole building collapsed! And what did Nero do? He composed a new song, an ode of thanks to the gods, since they saw fit to stave off the catastrophe until after he finished his performance, and not a single person was injured. Ah, Nero!” Epaphroditus wiped a nostalgic tear from his eye.

Epictetus responded to the story with a brittle smile. Now that he was a freedman, he no longer needed to pretend to share his former master’s fond memories of Nero, but he was discreet enough to keep his opinions about the late emperor to himself. “Yes, earthquakes are common in Campania,” he said, “but lately they’ve been having two or three tremors every day. It was nerve-rattling, let me tell you. And earlier this month, a great many springs and wells in the vicinity ran dry, sources of water that have always been reliable in the past. Pliny says that something must be happening deep in the earth. It has people worried. They say…” He lowered his voice. “They say that gigantic beings have been seen, walking through the cities by night. They skulk in the forests. They even fly through the air.”

“Giants?” said Lucius.

“Titans, one presumes. The gods of Olympus defeated them aeons ago and imprisoned them in Tartarus, the deepest caverns of the underworld. The people in Campania are afraid the Titans have broken free and made their way to the surface. That would explain the tremors and the divergence of the subterranean water channels. These Titans are always seen coming from the direction of Mount Vesuvius.”

“Aren’t there caves at the summit of Vesuvius?” said Lucius. “I know there’s a circular valley with steep sides at the top. The rebel slave Spartacus camped there with his army of gladiators.”

Epaphroditus cocked his head. “You’ve been reading Titus Livius.”

Lucius nodded. “I take down the scrolls I inherited from my father and dip into his history every so often.”

Epictetus continued. “To the locals, Vesuvius is best known for the vineyards and gardens on the slopes. The soil is amazingly fertile. But yes, Spartacus did hide his army there, in the early days of the great slave revolt. It’s a substantial mountain, visible for miles around and far out to sea, but not too difficult to scale because the slope is so gradual. At the top there’s a kind of hollowed-out depression, a desolate, rocky, flat place surrounded by steep, craggy walls – a perfect place for Spartacus to make his camp, since it’s hidden from sight and the walls form a kind of natural parapet all around. It occurs to me that the summit of Vesuvius is not unlike the new amphitheatre over there, if you imagine the amphitheatre set atop a great mountain with the slopes coming up to its rim – though of course the crater atop Vesuvius is much larger. Among the rocks there are fissures that appear to have been singed by flame, as if they once spat fire. You see that sort of phenomenon still active in places all around Campania, but on Vesuvius the fuel long ago gave out and the fissures closed up.”

“Unless they’ve opened up again because these Titans are breaking out,” said Martial.

Epaphroditus shook his head. “I wouldn’t put too much store in these supposed sightings of Titans. It’s my opinion, and I suspect Pliny would agree, that the Titans have long been extinct. Certainly, they once existed: occasionally, excavating deep holes for foundations or canals, people find bones so enormous they can only have belonged to the Titans. But the fact that one finds only bones would indicate that such beings must be extinct.”

“I should think that makes their appearance now all the more disturbing,” said Lucius. “Epictetus just told us that people have reported seeing these giant creatures – in the cities, in the woods, even in the sky. All these rumblings in the earth may be the portents of some terrible event.”

Epaphroditus gave him a quizzical look. Lucius knew what he was thinking. Despite his disavowal of any interest in augury, Lucius had just expressed a belief in divination. Without realizing it, he had slipped a hand inside his toga and was touching the fascinum of his ancestors. He often wore the talisman, though never outside his clothes, where it could be seen.

There was a sudden gust of wind. It was not the mild westerly breeze that had provided some relief from the heat earlier in the day but a stronger, warmer wind from the south. The light changed as well. Though there was not a cloud in the sky, the sun abruptly grew dim, then dimmer still. The sky grew dark. The five friends stopped talking and exchanged uncertain glances.

An eerie silence descended. The labourers at the amphitheatre stopped working. The whole city was suddenly quiet.

Epaphroditus began to cough. So did Lucius. He moved to cover his mouth and found himself looking at the back of his hands. They appeared to be covered with a fine white powder, like marble dust. He looked up and blinked; the same white powder clotted his eyelashes. He puckered and spat, tasting ashes in his mouth. Pale dust fell from the sky, not in drifts but evenly and steadily, everywhere at once, like snow falling in the mountains.

Without a word, all of them rose from their chairs and made their way to the shelter of the portico that bordered the garden on three sides. As they watched, the dust continued to descend. The light of the sun was reduced to a faint glow. The fall of dust was so thick that they could no longer see the amphitheatre.

“What is it?” whispered Lucius.

“I have no idea,” said Epaphroditus. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s like something from a nightmare,” said Dio.

From somewhere beyond the garden walls, a voice cried out, “It’s the end of the world!”

The shrill cry of panic ignited others. From the neighbours all around they heard shouts of alarm. The cries sounded strangely muted and far away.

The fall of ash grew so heavy that they could see nothing at all beyond the garden. It was as if the world around them had utterly vanished. At the centre of garden, dust piled high atop the wavy hair of the statue of Melancomas, frosting his ears and covering his muscular shoulders and arms with a thick mantle of white.

AD 80

“What a year, what a terrible, terrible year!” said Epaphroditus. “First, the fiery eruption of Vesuvius and the complete loss of Pompeii and Herculaneum – whole cities buried as if they never existed.”

A year to the day after the fall of ash on Roma, Epaphroditus was again playing host to Lucius and the others in his garden.

“And then, the outbreak of plague here in Roma – the plague that claimed your mother, Lucius. Chrysanthe was such a lovely woman. She died before her time.”

Lucius nodded, acknowledging his friend’s words of condolence. His mother’s death had been quick, but not painless. Chrysanthe had suffered a great deal, racked by fever and coughing up blood. Lucius had been with her at the end, along with his three sisters. He was not close to his siblings. It was the first time in years that they had all been together.

“That plague,” Epaphroditus continued, “was caused, so everyone assumes, by that bizarre dust that fell on us after Vesuvius erupted. There must have been something toxic in that dust. Remember, for a couple of days, until word of the disaster at Pompeii arrived, we had no idea what the dust was or where it came from. People thought the firmament itself was crumbling, signalling the end of the universe. Who could imagine that a volcano could throw up so much debris? They say the ash from Vesuvius fell as far away as Africa, Egypt, and even Syria.

“Then, yet another disaster. While the emperor was down in Campania, comforting the survivors, that terrible fire broke out in Roma – three days and nights of conflagration that seemed to strike precisely those areas that were not burned during the Great Fire under Nero. The devastation extended from the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline – just repaired after the arson of Vitellius! – all the way to Theatre of Pompeius on the Field of Mars and Agrippa’s lovely temple called the Pantheon, which was totally gutted.”

Lucius Pinarius nodded sombrely. “Cities lost, plague and fire in Roma – truly, it’s been a terrible year. And yet here are the five of us, all alive and well.”

“The six of us, if you count Melancomas.” Dio cast an appreciative glance at the statue.

“Melancomas will be here long after the rest of us are gone,” said Epaphroditus.

“Terrible disasters,” agreed Martial, “but no one can fault the emperor. Titus made quick restitution to the citizens in Campania and began rebuilding the remaining cities around the bay, then turned to restoring the burned areas of Roma – and without raising taxes, mind you, or making special appeals to the wealthy. He did it all himself, even stripping his own properties of ornaments to redecorate the temples and public buildings, like a true father of the Roman state. To combat the plague, Titus did all that any man could, seeking counsel from the priests and offering the appropriate sacrifices to the gods.”

“The emperor’s leadership in these times of crisis cannot be faulted,” said Epaphroditus. “Still, people are badly shaken and fearful of the future.”

“Which is why the opening of the amphitheatre could not have come at a more propitious time,” said Martial.

They turned their gaze to the massive structure across the way. The last of the scaffolds had been removed. The curved travertine walls gleamed in the morning sunlight; the niches formed by the multiple arches were filled with brightly painted statues of gods and heroes. Colourful pennants streamed from poles affixed to the rim. The open space between the amphitheatre and the new baths was thronged with people on holiday. This was the opening day of Vespasian’s great dream, the Flavian Amphitheatre.

“Are we ready to set out?” said Lucius.

“I think so,” said Epaphroditus. “Should I bring along a slave?”

“Of course,” said Martial. “We’ll be there all day. The slave can fetch food for us. Alas, if only he could go to the latrina for us as well! But there are still some tasks that cannot be delegated to a slave.”

“Where will we put him?” said Epaphroditus.

“I imagine it’s like the theatre,” said Martial. “There’s bound to be a section at the back of the tier for everyone’s slaves.”

“You have the tokens?” said Epaphroditus.

Martial held up three tiny clay tablets upon which were stamped numerals and letters. “For yours truly – the poet charged with witnessing the inaugural games and composing an official tribute in verse – three excellent seats in the lowest tier. We’re right next to the imperial box, just behind the Vestal virgins. Take good care of your ticket. You’ll want it for a souvenir.”

“Only three?” said Lucius.

“I’m not going,” said Epictetus.

“Nor am i,” said Dio.

“But why not?”

“Lucius, I haven’t attended a gladiator show since I became a freedman,” said Epictetus. “I certainly don’t intend to see this one simply because it promises to be bigger and bloodier than any that’s come before.”

“And you, Dio?”

“Perhaps you’ve never noticed, Lucius, but philosophers are seldom seen at gladiator shows, unless they wish to stand up and address the crowd about the evils of such spectacles. I don’t think even our free-speech-loving emperor would welcome such an interruption on this occasion.”

“But the gladiators won’t even appear until later in the day,” said Martial. “Before that there’ll be a whole programme of spectacles-”

“I am well aware of the typical entertainment offered at such events,” said Dio. “There will be the public punishment of criminals by various ingenious means, intended, ostensibly, for the edification of the crowd. But take a look at the faces in the stands; are the spectators uplifted by the moral lesson, or titillated by the humiliation and destruction of another mortal? And there will undoubtedly be animal exhibitions; these, too, are educational, or so we are told, since they give us a chance to see exotic creatures from far away places. But the animals are never simply paraded for our perusal; they’re made to fight one another, or hunted down by armed men and killed. Yes, yes, Lucius, I know: you’re a hunter yourself, so you appreciate an exhibition of fine marksmanship. But again, is it the hunter’s skills the spectators applaud, or the sight of an animal being wounded and slaughtered? And all that bloodshed is merely prelude to the gladiator matches, where human beings are forced to fight for their lives for the amusement of strangers. Since at least the time of Cicero there have been those of us who object to the spectacles of the arena, which debase rather than elevate their audience. The fact that such games have now been given a grander venue than ever before may be cause for the poet to celebrate, but not the philosopher.”

“But don’t you want to see the building?” said Lucius.

“You yourself have called it a monstrosity.”

“I’m not in love with it, as Epaphroditus is. The thing is too big and too garish for my taste. Still, there’s never been a place like it, and this is the opening day. All of Roma will be there.”

“All the more reason for a philosopher to stay away,” said Dio. “It’s one thing when a city holds its gladiator shows at some rustic spot outside the gates, in a natural setting where there’s no pretense about what’s taking place – men sitting in the dirt, watching other men kill each other. But to take these blood sports and display them in a palatial setting, surrounded by beautiful statues and fine architecture, as if killing were simply another artistic endeavour to be appreciated and enjoyed by sophisticated people – that in itself is offensive. No man who considers himself a philosopher can lend his presence to such an event. Epictetus and I will find something better to do. You’re welcome to join us, Lucius.”

“Ha!” Martial waved back the philosophers and put his arm about Lucius’s shoulder. “You won’t lure Pinarius away from the most exciting event of the year to go sit on a hilltop and listen to you grumble about your bunions and how they must have been sent by the gods to test your endurance!” He pressed one of the tokens into Lucius’s hand. “Now take that, my friend, and hold on to it tightly, and don’t let any philosopher talk you out of using it. Come along, then, everyone who’s coming.”

They parted ways in the street outside the house. Lucius watched the philosophers walk up the hill. Epictetus used his crutch. Dio took small steps and walked slowly to match the younger man’s pace. Lucius felt an urge to join them, but Martial grabbed his toga and pulled him in the opposite direction.

The open space around the Flavian Amphitheatre was thronged with people. A small crowd had gathered to watch a mime troupe perform a parody about a brawny gladiator and a senator’s wife who lusted after him behind her husband’s back. Street vendors moved through the crowd, offering good-luck charms, freshly cooked bits of meat and fish on skewers, little clay lamps with images of gladiators, and tickets for excellent seats so crudely stamped that they had to be counterfeit.

Long lines began to form at the entrances, radiating outwards from the amphitheatre, but there was no waiting at the gate to which Martial led them. The finely dressed men and women going in were clearly of a higher class than the citizens in ragged tunics queuing up at the other gates.

Once through the entrance, they found themselves in a finely appointed vestibule with a marble floor and elegant furniture. The railings had ivory fittings and the walls were exquisitely painted with pictures of gods and heroes.

“It reminds me of the Golden House,” said Epaphroditus. “See that mosaic of Diana in front of the steps? I’m almost certain that was lifted stone by stone from the anteroom to Nero’s bed chamber.”

“It makes sense that the Flavians would have stripped the Golden House to decorate their amphitheatre,” said Lucius. “But surely the entire structure isn’t decorated this elaborately.”

“Of course not,” said Martial. “This is the section for important people – magistrates, visiting dignitaries, Vestal virgins, and friends of the emperor, such as yours truly. Only the best for my companions! And look, just as I promised, there’s a splendid buffet laid out for us right here in the vestibule, and free wine. What a privileged existence is the life of the poet!”

They mingled in the vestibule for a while, eating and drinking, until a horn sounded and a crier came through the room, calling for all to find their seats. The men in togas and the women in elegant stolas began to drift to a marble stairway that led up to bright daylight. Lucius and his friends followed the crowd.

Epaphroditus had described the scale of the amphitheatre and the way it was laid out; Epictetus had compared it to the circular valley, now vanished, at the summit of Vesuvius. But no amount of mere description could have prepared Lucius for what he beheld from the top of the steps. For a moment his mind could not take it in; as the sound of fifty thousand people created a single dull roar, so the sight of so many people in one place registered as a kind of blur, an undifferentiated mass of humanity in which no individuals could be perceived. But, little by little, as he stood on the landing, he began to regain his bearings, and his mind began to perceive what was near and what was far.

Lucius had never experienced anything like that first moment inside the Flavian Amphitheatre. That instant alone, so disorienting that it was almost frightening, yet so unique and thrilling, was worth the excursion. Dio and Epictetus were fools, he thought, to deprive themselves of such an experience, which was surely to be had in no other place on earth.

He realized that he was standing not in full sunlight but in brightly filtered shade, and looked up to see awnings like sails that extended from the uppermost parapet all around the building. As he peered upwards, squinting, he saw that men were working the complicated rigging, adjusting the angle of the awnings to block the sunlight.

Martial pulled at his toga. “Stop gawking like a bumpkin. You’re holding up the crowd. Come along.”

They found their seats. The great bowl of the amphitheatre encircled them. Below, jugglers, tumblers, and acrobats of both sexes, wearing scanty but brightly coloured costumes, were already in the arena. Some were so close that Lucius could see their faces. Others were small in the distance. The scale of the place confounded him. Somewhere nearby, a water organ was playing a lively tune.

“Have we missed the beginning of the show?”

“Oh, this isn’t the show,” said Martial. “This is just a trifle to keep the crowd amused while they file into their seats. Numa’s balls, look how high they’ve strung that tightrope! Can you imagine walking across that thing with another fellow on your shoulders? It always gives me the shivers when they perform without a net.”

“Why are the seats in front of us empty?”

“Because the Vestals haven’t yet arrived. They’re often the last to show up at any public event, even after the emperor. Ah, but here he comes now.”

Titus and his retinue began to file into the imperial box. The emperor was forty but looked younger, thanks to his genial expression and a full head of hair not yet touched by grey. He had married early and been widowed, then remarried and almost as quickly divorced his second wife, whose family was too closely associated with the Pisonian conspiracy against Nero. He had not remarried since. For female consorts he was flanked on one side by his grown daughter, Julia, and on the other by his younger sister, Flavia Domitilla. Several of his favourite eunuchs also attended him, beautiful and exquisitely dressed creatures who at a glance seemed neither female nor male; they exemplified what Dio called the Persian ideal of beauty.

The last members of the imperial family to enter the box were the emperor’s younger brother, Domitian, with his wife and their seven-year-old son. At twenty-eight, Domitian looked almost as old as Titus, thanks to his dour expression and the fact that he had lost much of his hair; gone was the glorious chestnut mane that had made him so conspicuous amid the Flavian entourage during the last days of Vitellius. While Titus smiled and waved enthusiastically to the crowd, Domitian hung back, looking glum. The brothers were known to have a stormy relationship. After Vespasian died, Domitian had publicly complained that their father’s will specified that the brothers should rule jointly, but that the document had been deliberately altered; the implication was that Titus himself had tampered with it. Some people believed Domitian, but most did not. For one thing, Vespasian had always favoured his elder son; for another, he had expressed the opinion that one of the reasons why Caligula and Nero had come to a bad end was the fact that they rose to power at too young an age. Domitian was twelve years younger than Titus and clearly lacked his brother’s experience.

No one was quite sure of the proper etiquette in the new amphitheatre. As the emperor continued to wave, many in the crowd rose to their feet and waved back. Some cheered and applauded. Others remained seated. Epaphroditus was among those who stood and clapped his hands. “Now there you see the head of an emperor,” he said to his companions. They looked at him quizzically. “Have I never told you the story of Agrippina and the physiognomist?”

“I think I should have remembered that,” said Martial. “It sounds quite naughty.”

“It’s not that kind of story. Long ago, when Nero was a boy and his mother was desperate to make him Claudius’s heir, Agrippina called on an Egyptian physiognomist to examine the head of Claudius’s son, Britannicus. Do you know, Lucius, I think it was your father who suggested the examination.”

Lucius shrugged. “I’ve never heard the story.”

“Perhaps because it had a rather embarrassing outcome. The Egyptian was unable to draw any conclusions from Britannicus’s head, but since Britannicus’s constant companion happened to be present, the man took a look at his head, as well. That boy was none other than Vespasian’s son Titus. The physiognomist declared he had never seen a head more fit to rule over other men. People forgot about that incident for a long time, but as you can see, the Egyptian turned out to be right.”

“Where was Domitian when this examination took place?” said Lucius.

“Oh, he was a baby. He’d only just been born.”

“What could be easier to read than a baby’s head, since it has no hair?” said Martial. “Although Domitian probably had more hair then than he does now!”

There was a stirring in the crowd around them. The Vestal virgins had arrived and were taking their seats in the front row. No one had been sure whether to stand for the emperor, but everyone did so for the Vestals. They walked with such grace and poise that their linen mantles seemed to float atop their heads.

As the six women passed by, Lucius looked at their faces. He had seen the Vestals at public events but had never been this close to them before. The badge of their office was the vitta, a red-and-white band worn across their foreheads. Their closely shorn hair was hidden by a distinctive headdress called a suffibulum, and their linen gowns obscured the shapes of their bodies, so that all one could really see of them were their unadorned faces. They were of various ages, some old and wrinkled but some no more than girls. Vestals began their mandatory thirty years of service between the ages of six and ten, and most remained Vestals until they died. It seemed to Lucius they kept their eyes straight ahead and deliberately avoided making eye contact – until one of them turned her head as she passed and looked straight at him.

The Vestal was beautiful. The fact that every feature except her face was hidden only accentuated her beauty. Two green eyes flashed beneath delicate eyebrows of dark blonde. Her full lips favoured him with a faint smile. Lucius felt a quiver run down his spine, like a trickle of warm water.

“Her name is Cornelia Cossa,” whispered Epaphroditus in his ear.

“How old is she?”

“Let me think. She was only six when she was inducted into the sisterhood in the eighth year of Nero’s reign; that would make her twenty-four.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Everyone says so.”

The acrobats and jugglers dispersed. The official ceremonies commenced with a series of religious rites. An augury was taken, and the auspices were declared highly favourable. The priests of Mars paraded around the arena, chanting and burning incense. An altar was erected in the centre of the arena. The priests sacrificed a sheep to the war god and dedicated the amphitheatre in his honour. The blood of the sacrificed animal was sprinkled in all directions onto the sand of the arena.

A proclamation by the emperor was read aloud, in which he paid homage to his father, whose military success, architectural genius, and love of the city had given birth to the amphitheatre; the structure in which they had all gathered was the Divine Vespasian’s posthumous gift to the people of Roma. Jewish warriors – filthy, naked, and shackled with chains – were driven at sword point around the arena by armed legionaries as a reminder of the great victory that had brought peace to the eastern provinces of the empire and secured the treasure that had paid for the amphitheatre, the new baths, and many other improvements all over the city. Vespasian had joined the gods, but his legacy in stone, the Flavian Amphitheatre, would endure for all time.

The proclamation went on for some time. Lucius’s mind began to wander. He noticed that Martial had pulled out a stylus and a wax tablet and was busy scribbling. He assumed that his friend was taking down the words of the proclamation, but the notes he was able to read had nothing to do with what they were hearing. Martial saw him scanning his notes.

“Random impressions,” he whispered. “You never know what might become a poem. Look at all these people. How many races and nationalities do you think are represented here today?’

Lucius looked around them. “I have no idea.”

“Nor do I, but it seems to me the whole world is here, in microcosm. Look at those black-skinned Ethiopians over there. And that group over there – what sort of people have blonde hair and wear it twisted into knots like that?”

“Sicambri, I think they’re called. A Germanic tribe that lives at the mouth of the Rhine River.”

“And before we took our seats, in the vestibule I saw men in Arabian headdresses, and Sabaeans from the Red Sea, who wear black from head to foot. And I smelled Cilicians.”

“Smelled them?”

“The women and boys and even the grown men of Cilicia wear a very distinctive perfume, made from a flower that grows only on the highest peaks of the Taurus Mountains. You’d know that, Pinarius, if you’d ever had a Cilician boy-”

He was interrupted by a shushing noise. One of the Vestals had turned around in her seat and was glaring at them. She was old and wrinkled, with a severe expression that intimidated even Martial. The Vestal sitting next to her also turned and looked up at them. It was Cornelia Cossa. Her calm smile and radiant beauty was in such contrast to her fellow priestess that Lucius laughed out loud, then regretted doing so at once, fearing he had offended her. But if anything, Cornelia’s smile widened a bit, and there was a twinkle in her eye as she returned her attention to the crier who was reading the proclamation.

“Did you see that?” whispered Martial. “She looked right at you.”

Lucius shrugged. “What of it?”

“She looked at you the way a woman looks at a man.”

“Martial, you are incorrigible! Go back to sniffing your Cilician boys.”

At last the various proclamations and invocations were finished. The Flavian Amphitheatre was officially opened. The spectacles began.

The first event was the scourging of the informers. Titus had promised to round up the worst offenders – liars and scoundrels who made a living off the public purse by accusing innocent men of conspiring against the emperor or defrauding the state. Such creatures had been a blight on every reign since that of Augustus. No matter how sensible and confident an emperor might be at the beginning of his reign, with each year that passed, he and his ministers invariably grew more susceptible to baseless rumours and more fearful of imaginary enemies. The hard-headed Vespasian had been no more immune to poisonous slander than had his predecessors. By the end of his reign, many a man had suffered punishment based on groundless suspicion and many an unscrupulous informer had grown rich. Titus intended to make a clean break with the past.