Rome's Lost Son (30 page)

‘At what cost?’

‘I’m afraid that I don’t know anything about the financial side of it, sir; I’m just in charge of the stables’ security.’

Vespasian studied his client for a few moments; he was a few years older than Vespasian. Lucius’ hard twenty-five years in the IIII Scythica and then life as hired muscle for the Green racing faction had taken its toll: he was battered and bald but still brawny. He owed Vespasian his life when, as a military tribune with the IIII Scythica, his patron had come up with a face-saving way of only executing one of the two men charged with striking a superior officer during a disturbance in the camp; Lucius had been the lucky man to draw the long straw. ‘Who is the Green faction-master at the moment?’

Lucius’ surprise showed on his face. ‘Eusebius, sir.’

‘I don’t take any interest in racing,’ Vespasian said, explaining his ignorance. ‘Take a message to Eusebius: tell him I would like a meeting and ask him when would be convenient.’

‘Yes, patronus; I’ll have your answer at tomorrow’s salutio.’

‘Thank you, Lucius. You will stay and witness my son’s coming of age?’

‘I’m honoured, sir. And may I say how good it is to see you back in Rome; I never once doubted that you would return.’

Vespasian inclined his head to his client, thanking him and dismissing him with one gesture. ‘It would seem that he still shows gratitude; he attended my uncle almost every day while I was away. Let me have a look at Ewald’s list again.’

Hormus passed the list of clients who had drifted away during Vespasian’s time in the East.

Vespasian perused it and then handed it back to his slave. ‘Seven of them turned up this morning, begging forgiveness, which I was happy to grant; that just leaves one: Laelius. I cannot abide ingratitude, Hormus.’

‘Especially ingratitude to a man as generous as yourself, master,’ Hormus said with genuine feeling.

‘Compose a letter to my brother; tell him the situation and have Sabinus cancel the chickpea contract with the ungrateful shit. Also, if his son is still serving as a military tribune in one of his legions, ask Sabinus to send him home immediately
without giving him a reason; that should give Laelius a lesson in gratitude.’

Hormus gave a grim smile. ‘Yes, that should do it, master.’

‘I’ll sign the letter after Titus’ ceremony. Also, send a note to Caenis to tell her I’ll be with her at dusk.’ Vespasian got to his feet. ‘And find out to whom Laelius has now pledged his dubious loyalty.’

Hormus brandished Ewald’s list. ‘It says that here, master.’ He ran his finger down the names. ‘Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus.’

Vespasian took a fold of his toga, draped it over his head and then bowed to the
lararium
, the altar where the images of the
lares domestici
, the household gods, were kept. He then turned to face his son standing next to him. ‘This is the last time you will be addressed as a boy.’ He lifted the leather thong of the
bulla
over Titus’ head; this was the phallic charm that the boy had worn since birth to ward off the evil-eye. ‘I decree that from now on, my son, you, Titus Flavius Vespasianus, are a man. Take up a man’s duty, dignity and honour and go out into the world and thrive in your own right to your greater glory and to the glory of the house of Flavius.’

Titus bowed his head in acknowledgement of his father’s wishes.

Vespasian then placed the bulla on the altar and arranged around it five small clay statuettes that he took from a cupboard next to it. He stretched his arms out, palms upwards, muttered a short prayer, and then filled a shallow bowl with wine from the altar jug. Standing with the bowl in his right hand he poured a libation over the altar in front of the largest of the figures, the
lar familiaris
, which represented the founder of the family. He then motioned his son to join him next to the altar and gave him a sip of wine, before draining the rest himself and setting down the bowl.

Removing the toga from his head he turned to address the crowd of clients watching the ceremony, Gaius, Magnus with three of his erstwhile brethren, Tigran, Sextus and Cassandros, amongst them; Flavia sat before them, tears in her eyes, with her arm around
their daughter – Domitian had been judged too ill-behaved to attend – and Britannicus stood next to them. ‘I ask all you here to witness my decision to grant adult status to my eldest son.’

There was a chorus affirming that was indeed the case.

Vespasian then signalled to Hormus, who stepped forward with a plain white toga virilis, the sign of an adult male citizen, and began to drape it around Titus. When Hormus was done, Titus covered his head with a fold of his toga and, standing in the prayer position with his palms turned to the heavens, pledged himself to the house of Flavius and to its guardian god, Mars.

As the prayer was recited, Vespasian looked over to Britannicus; tears were streaming down his long face, inherited from his father, as he watched his friend complete the ceremony that, even at his young age he still had the maturity to realise, he would never, for political reasons, be allowed to celebrate.

Vespasian wondered for a moment what sort of emperor the doomed boy would have made and then remembered that he was the product of a fool and a power-mad whore. Britannicus was evidently no fool and so therefore, unless nature was going to be completely overruled, once he fully matured sexually he would probably display all the licentiousness of his mother, Messalina; perhaps he even had the potential of making Caligula look like a man with nothing more than a mildly overactive libido.

As Titus came to the end of his prayer, Vespasian dismissed the thought from his mind as irrelevant: no one could ever know what sort of emperor Britannicus would have made.

Rome was in a festive mood, ready to celebrate the Augustalia. Wreaths of flowers and laurels adorned the many statues of Augustus throughout the city and crowds of loyal subjects of the Julio-Claudians were waiting to give thanks for the founder of the dynasty’s victorious return from the Civil War in the East, sixty-three years previously. All were heading for the Porta Capena, the gate that led out to the Via Appia. There, in the Temple of Fortuna Redux on the slope of the Caelian Hill just above the gate and in the shadow of the Appian Aqueduct, they would watch their Emperor, in his role as the Flamian Augustales,
lead the prayers and sacrifices to his deified predecessor. But this was just a prelude to the main events of the day: the racing and the feasting.

‘You needn’t worry any more, Vespasian,’ Britannicus said as they headed down the Quirinal Hill with Vespasian’s and Gaius’ clients following in attendance. ‘Titus has nothing to fear from his association with me now that he has become a man.’

Vespasian failed to see how the difference in rank would protect his son walking next to him, upright and proud in his toga virilis. ‘Agrippina is a spiteful woman.’

‘She is; but Seneca, Domitius’ and my tutor, is not a spiteful man.’ Britannicus was evidently still unable to refer to Nero by his adoptive name.

‘But what power does he have?’ Gaius asked as Magnus and his erstwhile brothers, beating a path for the company through the holiday crowds, slowed in the face of the bottleneck at the entrance to Augustus’ Forum, clogged with citizens laying small gifts at the feet of his statues.

Britannicus looked up at Gaius. ‘It’s not so much that he has power, it’s that he has influence and he’s using that influence to ensure that he will retain the luxuries that accompany it for as long as possible. Seneca knows Domitius’ character only too well; who could fail to spot his excesses?’

‘Your father, for a start,’ Titus pointed out.

‘My father’s an idiot and will be dead by this time tomorrow because of it.’ Britannicus spoke without a trace of emotion. ‘But Seneca has managed to persuade Domitius that if he wants to rule for the rest of his
natural
life, rather than just five years like Caligula did, then he will need to restrain himself when it comes to his subjects’ lives, wives and assets. If he does so then he’ll be free to live a life of artistic indolence, seeing as he’s starting to persuade himself that his mediocre artistic talent is the greatest ever bestowed upon any man. Meanwhile, Seneca, Pallas and Burrus take the policy decisions that they are all far more qualified to make rather than a seventeen-year-old youth who’s not allowed to let go of his mother’s skirts because he is her only remaining political asset and is tied to her by incest.’ The party
moved on again as the entrance to Augustus’ Forum cleared; all around, people were shouting praise to the man who had brought about the longest period of peace free from civil strife that had been known for more than a hundred and fifty years. ‘When Domitius has me murdered the deed will only be acceptable if it’s seen to be for the good of Rome. But if he kills Titus or any other of Rome’s sons along with the one already lost then he will be seen as someone who acted out of spite, like his mother, rather than someone who acted, reluctantly, out of necessity. Seneca will make sure that Domitius understands that; so Titus is safe.’

‘Put like that, you may be right, dear boy,’ Gaius said, evidently forgetting exactly who he was talking to. ‘But how can we believe that Agrippina will have the same discipline?’

‘Because she has no hold on power other than through Domitius and, although it will stick in her gorge to do so, she too will understand the need for restraint. After I’m dead, she will have done her job securing her son in power and Domitius will have no use for her; she will have to be very careful about what demands she makes of him. If she becomes too dominant then Domitius might just realise that he doesn’t need her any more.’

Vespasian felt an admiration for the youth who could talk so dispassionately about his inevitable death and seemed unafraid to face it. ‘Why don’t you run?’

‘Where to? Some stinking tribe outside the Empire? Or perhaps to Parthia? The first thing anyone would do when they find out my true identity is sell me back to Domitius and then he’ll be well within his rights to have me executed for treason.’ Britannicus shrugged, looking resigned. ‘No, my defiance is willingly accepting the lot served to me by my fool of a father. I take consolation in the facts that he will die before me and that Narcissus, the man who ordered the execution of my mother, will also be waiting on the other side of the Styx when I arrive.’

Vespasian could see the depressing logic of Britannicus’ argument: however he looked at it, he was doomed. But maybe he was right about Titus. Now that he was back in Rome, Vespasian decided that the person he needed to cultivate was the man who would hold the reins of the next emperor. ‘Do you think, Uncle,
that it would be beneath our family’s dignity for me to become Seneca’s client?’

‘Without a doubt, dear boy; but when did that ever stop anyone from trying to secure their position?’

Vespasian, for the first time, found some enjoyment in watching the chariot teams hurl themselves around the sand track of the Circus Maximus; he even found himself willing on the Greens – although this did not translate into actual cheering. He began to look forward, with genuine anticipation, to the prospect of seeing his team of beautiful Arabs leaving the rest of the field behind as they stormed to victory, but more than that, he was looking forward to seeing Caenis that evening. Her naked form came to his mind, her smile enticing him with the prospect of an exhaustingly adventurous time in her bedchamber. However, his daydreaming was regularly interrupted by the almost surreal goings-on in the imperial box, just ten paces to his right.

Claudius had arrived in a litter at the Temple of Fortuna Redux and this had not been solely because his legs were weak; as he dismounted it had been obvious to all that he was still drunk – drunker, even, than he had been the day before. The shame of his fellow priests – Galba’s in particular – had been plain for all to see as he slurred his way through the prescribed prayers and then botched the sacrifice so that blood spurted all over his toga in what everybody knew was the worst of omens. However, those senators who had been present in the House the day before were not at all surprised that he should be the subject of a portent of death. Nero, now almost fully grown since Vespasian had last seen him, his sunset hair radiant and now matched by a downy beard, had stood on the temple steps making extravagant gestures of concern and alarm for his adoptive father. He had ostentatiously mouthed every word of the prayers as if coaching Claudius through them; each time the Emperor managed to complete a whole line without a slur or a stutter, the Prince of the Youth made a show of breathing sighs of relief that the gullible in the crowd – a large majority – took to be heartfelt and genuine.

Once the rites had been completed Claudius had been, almost literally, scooped up by Pallas and Burrus, placed back in his litter and equipped with sufficient of the juice of Bacchus to last him for the four-hundred-pace journey to the Circus Maximus. Despite the shortness of the trip the jug had been empty upon his arrival, but Agrippina, awaiting him in the imperial box, had seen to his refreshment requirements as soon as he entered and had since hardly stopped feeding her drink-sodden husband wine of a very undiluted nature.

Agrippina, Nero, Pallas and Burrus were now acting as if nothing were amiss as Claudius, having summoned Paelignus to the box to play dice between races, could barely remain upright in his seat and seemed to be in considerable difficulty each time he attempted to cast his throw.

The crowd, though, took little notice of the inebriate in the imperial box as they urged on the great-hearted equine teams seven times around the
spina
, the barrier running almost centrally down the middle of the arena upon which were mounted the bronze dolphins that marked the passing of each lap. Twelve races of twelve teams, three from each of the factions, were cheered on that afternoon and the celebrations for the winners were raucous; however, they were loudest for one team, when the neutrals and sycophants in the circus joined the Prince of the Youth in his extravagant poses of joy on the four occasions that his beloved Blues were first to tip the seventh dolphin.