Masters of Rome

CHAPTER XIII

‘It’s out of my hands,’ Pallas repeated in a voice barely audible above the clatter of four sets of footsteps reverberating off the corridor’s marble walls. ‘Whatever debt of gratitude I might owe you all as a family, I cannot influence Narcissus on this matter.’ He stopped suddenly and turned to face Vespasian, Sabinus and Gaius, halting them too, and continued in a whisper: ‘Believe me, gentlemen, if there was any argument that I could put forward to keep you out of this, I would have made it this afternoon whilst Narcissus and I were discussing what to do after Messalina persuaded Claudius to order Asiaticus’ arrest.’

Gaius was outraged. ‘You planned this with Narcissus!’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Pallas hissed, looking up and down the corridor, ‘Narcissus has ears everywhere. Of course I did; our positions with the Emperor are at stake. We’re nothing without him and if we lose his trust then Messalina would have us dead within a matter of hours. And what then, senator? Would you place the governance of Rome in the hands of that harpy?’

Sabinus thrust his face close to Pallas. ‘But forcing me to accuse an innocent man of a crime that I’ve committed is-’

‘Is what’s going to keep you safe, Sabinus; that was my idea and it was the only way that I’ve been able to help you.’

‘Help me?’

‘Yes!’ Pallas snapped. He paused to gather himself, having raised his voice, albeit in a forced whisper, for only the third time in Vespasian’s recollection. He turned and continued down the corridor so that their conversation would again be masked by their footsteps. ‘Who do you think is behind all this?’

‘Messalina, of course,’ Sabinus hissed dismissively.

‘Think, Sabinus. Yes, she wants Asiaticus dead because she covets his gardens and was preparing smaller false charges against him; but how did she manage to come up with just the right charge that would not only finish Asiaticus but also compromise Narcissus and me?’

Vespasian suddenly understood. ‘Callistus!’

‘Exactly. It must have been him who suggested to Messalina that she accuse Asiaticus of being the man behind the mask because he’s the only other person who knows who it really was. He’s sure that neither Narcissus nor I will try and save Asiaticus by naming Sabinus — for obvious reasons.’ He paused as they went by a couple of slaves tending to the oil lamps; the slaves bowed as the group passed. ‘Then, once Claudius has been manoeuvred into executing or forcing his old friend to suicide, Callistus will go to the Emperor and tell him that he’s found out that Asiaticus was innocent after all and both Narcissus and I knew it was Sabinus but said nothing. Claudius’ remorse will then be our downfall.’

Gaius panted as he struggled to keep up with the pace of their walk and the conversation. ‘But surely you’ll tell Claudius that Callistus was in on the cover-up too.’

‘He’s gambling, and correctly too in my opinion, that Claudius will just think that we’re trying to take Callistus down with us out of spite. After all, why would Callistus endanger himself by admitting such a thing to Claudius if he was a part of it?’

‘Then how can Callistus claim to have found this out?’

‘Does it matter? He can say anything he likes: that he overheard us talking about it or one of his agents did; even that he dreamt it. Before things got really bad between them, Narcissus and Messalina got rid of a mutual enemy by going to Claudius at different times saying that they had had a dream that this man was plotting to stab Claudius; the unfortunate man was executed the same day. Claudius sees conspiracies all around him and is always willing to believe whoever comes to him with news of treachery; witness his old friend Asiaticus fighting for his life tomorrow on trumped-up charges.’

‘So how will Narcissus forcing me to testify against Asiaticus make me safe?’ Sabinus asked as they reached the more populated, grand atrium of the palace.

Vespasian gave a weary sigh. ‘Because, brother, if Narcissus brings you forward as a witness to corroborate Messalina’s accusation then Callistus can’t successfully claim after the fact that you were really the guilty man; if he tries to then he’d be walking into a trap. Narcissus can say to Claudius that if Callistus knew that you were guilty all along then why didn’t he expose you at Asiaticus’ hearing? He’ll then remind Claudius privately that he had nothing to gain by seeing Asiaticus condemned; in fact, quite the reverse as he put himself in danger of Asiaticus exposing Poppaeus’ murder, which is something that Callistus knows nothing about. Claudius will believe that reasoning and Callistus will be exposed as a liar even though for once he’ll be telling the truth. It’s perfect; but Narcissus will only take that course if, during the hearing, he sees that Claudius believes Suillius’ accusations and thinks Asiaticus is guilty.

‘If, on the other hand, Claudius is sceptical then Narcissus will expose you; but he was lying when he said that would put him in danger, and Pallas was being disingenuous, to say the least, for not refuting that claim.’ He cast a sidelong glance at the Greek; a brief flicker in his eye told him that he had hit the mark. ‘Narcissus will say that Gaius came to him with the information; when he heard that Asiaticus was being falsely accused he couldn’t stand by and let him be found guilty for Sabinus’ crime that has brought shame on the family.’

Gaius looked at his nephew in alarm. ‘He can’t make me say that.’

‘Of course he can and you know it; it’ll be that or a trumped-up charge that will force your suicide. And you, Sabinus, will have no option but to admit to it.’

‘Bollocks I will.’

‘You will, brother, because you’ll be given the choice between committing suicide and your family keeping your property if you admit to the deed; or, if you deny it, execution and Clementina and the children becoming destitute. You know which one you’ll choose; you’ll have to admit to it and Messalina will have some explaining to do to her husband for bringing false charges against his old friend. So whatever happens, Narcissus is going to score a victory against one of his enemies. You almost have to admire him.’

Pallas gave a rare half-smile. ‘I can see you understand well how things are, Vespasian.’

‘I’m afraid that I’ve seen enough of your lives to know how sordid they really are, old friend.’

‘We have no choice now that we’ve risen so far and attracted so much envy; it’s that or death.’

‘If it comes to me facing death, Pallas,’ Sabinus muttered, ‘then I could still tell Claudius about the deal I had with you and your colleagues.’

Pallas shook his head. ‘I don’t think that you’ll want to do that.’

‘What would I have to lose?’

‘Nothing more than you would already, but Clementina and the children would also be joining you in the afterlife.’

Sabinus rounded on Pallas, grabbing the neck of his tunic. ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

Pallas gripped Sabinus’ fist and pulled it away. ‘I might not, Sabinus, but then again I might. However, you can be sure that Narcissus would without a thought, given the choice between his life and theirs.’

‘You scheming little cunts!’

Gaius pulled his nephew back. ‘That is not helpful, Sabinus.’

‘Helpful? I could be dead this time tomorrow.’

‘But you might not be and if you’re still breathing then Narcissus will never be able to hold Caligula’s assassination over you again; you’ll be free of it.’

Sabinus rubbed his temples, breathing deeply. ‘This is no way to live.’

‘Then leave Rome and go back to the estates.’

‘And do what, Uncle, wait and see whether next year’s wine is better than this year’s? No, I have to be in Rome.’

‘Then this is how you live. Come, I’ll walk you home to the Aventine. Vespasian, I assume that you’ll stay here.’

‘I will, Uncle; nothing that Flavia can do or say could be worse than the last half an hour.’

‘I think you’re right. Goodnight, Pallas; we appreciate your suggestion of the second course of action.’

Pallas inclined his head a fraction. ‘I’m truly sorry that it’s got so out of hand, Gaius, for old friendship’s sake.’

‘But has it really? I can’t remember a time that wasn’t fraught with danger.’ Gaius led Sabinus off across the atrium with his hand on his shoulder.

‘Could you show me to Flavia’s apartment, Pallas?’ Vespasian requested, watching them go. ‘I’ve no idea where it is.’

Pallas remained silent for a few moments, lost in his own thoughts, before turning away. ‘That will be one of the more pleasant tasks that I’ve performed today.’

Vespasian was alarmed to see two Praetorian Guardsmen on duty outside the door that Pallas led him to on the first floor of the palace. ‘What are they doing here?’

‘There’s no need to be concerned,’ Pallas assured him, switching to Greek; he signalled the guards to move aside. ‘They’re to keep intruders out, not to imprison people within.’ He knocked on the lacquered door, black with rectangular golden inlays.

Vespasian frowned, eying the two men suspiciously as they stared, unblinking, over his shoulders. A viewing slot opened and Pallas gave a quick order; the door opened.

‘I’ll leave you, my friend.’ Pallas held out his arm; Vespasian grasped it. ‘I’ll do whatever I can to ensure a good outcome for your family tomorrow. If it looks as if I’m doing otherwise just trust me because, as you are well aware, things are seldom as they seem.’

Vespasian released his grip, shaking his head; a rueful half-smile bent his lips as he held Pallas’ eye. ‘I don’t know how you keep up with all these machinations.’

‘The day I don’t will be my last; until then I enjoy the wealth and luxury that power and position bring whilst trying to ignore the third gift of those two fickle bitches.’

‘Fear?’

For the first time in their acquaintance Pallas let his mask slip; his eyes half closed and he sighed. ‘Constant.’ As quickly as it had disappeared the mask was redeployed; Pallas nodded a goodnight and walked away.

Vespasian turned to the open door, paused to compose himself and then walked through to meet the family that he had not seen for six years.

A gasp escaped Vespasian’s lips as he entered Flavia’s apartment and looked around.

‘Master, you are welcome,’ a middle-aged, brown-skinned slave in a well-cut tunic of fine, sky-blue linen said, bowing low. ‘My mistress heard of your arrival in the palace this evening and awaits you in the triclinium. My name is Cleon, I am the steward here; please follow me at your convenience.’

Vespasian barely heard the slave’s words as he took in the room around him. He was standing in an atrium, forty paces long by twenty wide, complete with an impluvium beneath a rectangular opening to the night sky in the ceiling above it; at its centre stood a bronze fountain depicting Venus holding a jar on her shoulder from which water cascaded into the white-lily-strewn pool below. But it was not the fact that he was standing in an atrium that should have been, by rights, on the ground floor of a villa and not in an apartment on the first floor that had made him gasp; it was the sheer luxuriousness of the décor. Low, marble tables on gilded legs of animal design, around which were neatly placed couches and chairs of polished wood of differing origins, all sumptuously cushioned or upholstered, surrounded the central pool. Ornaments stood on the reflective marble so that there seemed to be twice their number: silver and bronze statuettes, bowls of coloured glass containing freshly cut rose blooms, vases worked of stone or glazed earthenware, painted with geometrical designs or depictions of gods and heroes; Vespasian’s eyes took them all in and his brain swiftly calculated their approximate worth. Around the walls, busts of great men from times gone by were placed in niches on marble pedestals and in each corner stood a life-size, or larger, statue, painted in flesh tones and with eyes that followed the beholder around the room. But it was not just all this that made Vespasian stare openmouthed, as the slave waited in the doorway at the far end for him to follow; it was the frescos, and one in particular: Mother Isis, resplendent in her blue robe, looking down on lines of her worshippers, dressed in contrasting vibrant colours, as her priest performed a sacrifice over the fire on her altar, bedecked with chains of holly and surrounded by waterfowl. Each figure, whether human or animal, was of such exquisite craftsmanship that Vespasian knew that it was the work of one of the finest schools of artists in Rome. He also knew that Isis was Flavia’s guardian goddess and he shuddered as he realised that this fresco would not have been here when she had first moved in; she had commissioned it — at what cost?

He swallowed, adjusted his toga and, hoping against hope that the fresco was the only luxury in the room that he had paid for, followed Cleon through the door and into the triclinium.

‘Husband,’ Flavia purred as he entered the room, adjusting her position on the couch so as to flaunt the full, round shapeliness of her body beneath her stola of deep red linen. ‘I have prayed to Mother Isis for this moment every day since we parted.’ Gracefully she placed her feet onto the mosaic floor and stood up, causing her breasts to sway enticingly and Vespasian’s scrotum to tighten. Erect, she sashayed across the room to him, her neck straight and her head held high as if the elaborately tall coiffure crowning it was difficult to balance; dark ringlets fell down either side of her face highlighting the natural milkiness of her skin. Her dusky eyes glistened as they fixed on him, and her lips, painted an intimate shade of pink, parted invitingly. Dangling earrings swung gently from her lobes, a bejewelled necklace at her throat glinted and rings flashed on her fingers as she raised her hands and tenderly cupped Vespasian’s face; her perfume, musky and heart-quickening, enshrouded him as she pulled him towards her and into a fiery kiss that completed his full-blooded arousal onto which she pressed her belly.

‘I knew that you’d come to me first this time,’ Flavia murmured as their lips parted.

Surprised by the heat and coquettishness of her welcome, all thoughts of her profligacy were pushed to one side and he smiled with genuine feeling for the mother of his children but not the keeper of his heart. ‘You are my wife, Flavia; it’s only right that I come to you first.’

‘It may be right but it’s not always the case.’

Vespasian was not about to argue as he knew this to be true and, had circumstances been different, he might well have been holding Caenis right now. But he was here and his body was obviously pleased to see her; as was he. He turned to the steward hovering at a discreet distance beyond the open door. ‘Leave us, Cleon.’ The door closed; Vespasian led Flavia back to the couch and, without much preliminary fuss, urgently began to make up for six years being apart from his wife.

‘They’ll both be asleep,’ Flavia murmured with her eyes closed in response to his question.

Vespasian sat up on the couch. ‘I know; that’s why I want to see them now. I want to look at them, see their faces and get to know them a bit before I actually talk to them in the morning.’

Flavia opened her eyes and looked up at him. ‘If you insist, husband; who is a wife to keep a father from his children?’ She got to her feet and began to bring some semblance of order to her stola, which had had a rough ride during the last half an hour or more; her coiffure was beyond repair and she contented herself with giving it a couple of half-hearted pats before retrieving an errant earring from the couch. ‘Come,’ she said, taking Vespasian’s hand and leading him from the room back out into the lavishly appointed atrium. ‘Isn’t it lovely? I was so grateful to the Empress when she invited me to move in. She and I have become such firm friends and Titus and Britannicus adore each other; they take it in turns to sleep in one another’s rooms. Britannicus is here tonight, which is why the door is guarded. It’s a singular honour having the heir to the Empire under my roof; the other women around the palace are so jealous.’ She giggled and fluttered her eyelashes up at Vespasian. ‘The Emperor must favour you greatly to have allowed this to happen.’

Vespasian forced a smile, but knew it was not very convincing. He did not reply, marvelling instead at how quickly Flavia had returned to form after having won, in her eyes, the first battle between his women that Magnus had predicted. ‘Was it furnished when you moved in?’

‘Yes, but rather shabbily; the apartment hadn’t been used since Tiberius’ time and then only occasionally by minor officials and suchlike. It’s kept me very busy getting it fit for your return. Do you like it?’

Vespasian gave the most enthusiastic grunt he could in the circumstances as they left the room and passed into a wide corridor with windows down one side and doors down the other.

Flavia stopped at the second one outside which stood another two Praetorians. ‘This is Titus’ room, you must be very quiet.’ She turned the handle and stepped inside; Vespasian followed her into a room lit by a single oil lamp in which two boys were sleeping. Flavia went to the right-hand bed and looked down. ‘This is your son, husband; see how he has grown.’

Vespasian’s eyes took a few moments to adapt to the gloom. As they did the sleeping face of Titus came into focus and Vespasian drew in a sharp breath: it was as if he was looking at himself thirty years ago. His son had the same physiognomy: full round cheeks either side of a strong if slightly bulbous nose, large ears with pronounced lobes and a well-proportioned mouth with thin lips set over a slightly rounded, jutting jaw; but all this was contained in the immature face of a boy not quite eight. Vespasian gazed at Titus and felt sure that their similarity in feature would extend to closeness in temperament.

He bent to kiss his son’s forehead and then put an arm around Flavia’s shoulder whilst stroking Titus’ soft, light-brown hair. ‘He’s beautiful, my dear; let’s hope that we can make something great of him.’

‘We will, Vespasian; he’s getting one of the finest starts to life that a child can get. He’s the companion of the next Emperor.’

Which was what concerned Vespasian, although he did not voice it. As he turned to leave the room he glanced at the sleeping form of Britannicus and recalled Pallas’ prediction, four years before in Britannia, that the boy would be too young at Claudius’ death to be considered a viable successor; instead of reaching manhood he would be murdered by the man who stole his rightful inheritance — whoever that might be. Vespasian left the room with a prayer that somehow he would be able to keep his son safe during that tumultuous time in the not so distant future.

Flavia led him down the corridor to the next room; it was unguarded. She opened the door and ushered Vespasian inside; again it was dimly lit by a single lamp. He crossed the floor to a small bed on the far side beneath a shuttered window and with a fluttering within his chest beheld his daughter for the first time. Born soon after he had left Rome, Domitilla was now almost six; she lay on her back sleeping with the serenity that only a young child can. One arm was draped above her head, entangled in her long brown hair, and the other dangled off the side of the bed; her head was tilted to one side so that it faced Vespasian and he saw that she was beautiful. She had inherited her mother’s features; Vespasian could not help but wish that she would not also share her mother’s taste for the finer things in life but knew that to be a forlorn hope, given the comfort she was already used to. As this thought went through his mind, Domitilla stirred in her sleep and opened her eyes, looking directly into Vespasian’s; for a moment she held his gaze and then smiled at him before turning over and resuming her soft, rhythmic breaths. Vespasian could not be sure if she had actually seen him, having been so deeply asleep, but he had seen her eyes and he was smitten. It was with abundant joy that he kissed his daughter for the first time and then followed Flavia from the room.

‘And now, Vespasian,’ Flavia said as she closed the door, ‘it’s time for you to remind me again what it’s like to have a husband at home.’

Vespasian acquiesced with a grin and took her by the hand. Having seen his children, he was feeling very affectionately disposed towards his wife.

*

The dawn was warm and resounded in birdsong. Vespasian looked down from his bedroom window into a garden at the heart of the palace complex, surrounded by a colonnade crowned by a sloping terracotta-tiled roof, still damp after a light, nocturnal summer rain. Within the garden, slaves were moving around, watering the plants and bushes and preparing the lush oasis for Rome’s élite to use.

There was a knock on the door and Vespasian glanced down at Flavia, still asleep in the bed; she did not stir. ‘Enter.’

Two female slaves stepped into the room with their heads bowed; the younger one had a robe draped over one arm and held a pair of slippers.

‘What is it?’

The elder of the two, a dumpy woman in her thirties with the vague hint of a moustache, raised her eyes. ‘We’ve come to attend to the mistress, master; she asked to be wakened at dawn.’

Flavia opened an eye and let out a contented sigh as she focused on Vespasian. ‘Good morning, husband.’ She then noticed the two slaves in the doorway and her countenance changed. ‘Out! Both of you!’

The two slaves fled as ordered, closing the door behind them.

‘Come back to bed, Vespasian,’ Flavia offered, raising the blanket and revealing the shadowy outline of her naked body.

‘I don’t have the time,’ Vespasian replied, picking up his tunic from where it had been discarded the night before and slipping it over his head. ‘I want to be presented to the children and then I have to go.’

Flavia made a noise that sounded like a cross between disappointment and an enticing purr.

‘Do you always treat your dressers like that?’

‘Oh, they weren’t my dressers, Isis no; they’re just the girls who get me out of bed and escort me to my dressing room. My dressers attend me there, along with my make-up girls and hairdressers; those two come back here and clean the bedroom whilst I get ready.’

‘You’ve got slaves to do each of those things?’

‘Of course, my dear; what fashionable woman does not?’

Vespasian eased his feet into his red senatorial shoes. ‘So, Flavia, how many women help you to make yourself presentable each morning?’

‘Oh, very few; not nearly as many as Messalina has.’

‘I should hope not; she’s the Empress and you’re just the wife of an ex-legate — a very poor ex-legate at that.’

‘There’s no need to worry about the money, Vespasian; I’ve got plenty of it. How else could I have afforded to furnish this place and purchase nine girls?’

‘Nine! Whatever for?’

Flavia sat up and began to count off on her fingers. ‘Well, three hairdressers, two make-’

‘Did you just say that you had plenty of money?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I told the Cloelius Brothers’ banking house in the forum not to advance you more than five thousand a year.’

‘I know, and the horrid little men couldn’t be talked out of it; that’s why Messalina kindly gave me a very generous loan. She said-’

‘She did what!’

‘Gave me a loan.’

‘A loan!’ Vespasian almost spat out the word as if it were the most deadly of poisons. ‘You never asked permission from me to take a loan.’

‘You had much more important things on your mind and, besides, I didn’t need to. It was just a little arrangement between good friends, as a personal favour — from the Empress, no less, the other women were so jealous — to tide me over until you got back and could see that the allowance you’d given me wasn’t nearly enough to cover my outgoings and could remedy the situation. She said she’d charge only a nominal interest.’

‘How much interest?’

‘I can’t remember now, but it’s written down on the contract somewhere.’

‘You signed a contract?’

‘Of course.’

Vespasian sat, with a jolt, on a convenient chair and attempted to master his growing rage. ‘Just how much have you borrowed?’

‘My dear, hardly anything; just half of the value of that money that you brought back from Alexandria eight years ago, and have done nothing with since.’

Vespasian’s eyes narrowed as he struggled to prevent himself from slapping his wife. ‘You’ve borrowed one hundred and twenty-five thousand denarii from Messalina?’

Flavia’s voice hardened. ‘I’m now a lady of consequence, the mother to the heir’s companion; I need to appear as such and your allowance was insufficient. How else was I going to make a comfortable home for the children and for you to come back to? We need somewhere to entertain the finest people in Rome without feeling humiliated each time they turn their noses up at our tawdry furnishings.’

‘The Alexandrian money has already been spoken for: Gaius used it to secure a house on the Quirinal; your house! The one I bought for you to move into as soon as I can extract you from this labyrinth of intrigue without causing offence.’

‘Why should we move out of here? I’ve made it very comfortable.’

‘With borrowed money from Messalina, which puts me in her debt! No one in their right minds would put themselves in that situation! And at the moment I can’t afford to pay her off.’

‘Nonsense, one hundred and twenty-five thousand is nothing, husband; you must have made a fortune in slaves and plunder. Everyone always does; Messalina told me so.’

Unable to take any more without risking serious damage to either Flavia or her precious furnishings, Vespasian rose to his feet and stormed out of the door.

‘What about the children?’ Flavia called after him.

‘I’ll see them later — once I think you’ll be safe in my presence again!’

Vespasian had calmed somewhat by the time he saw his uncle arriving on the Palatine. Gaius was surrounded by his retinue of clients and preceded by Magnus and a couple of his crossroads brethren bearing stout staves to beat a way through the crowds. In the hour since leaving Flavia’s apartment in a rage greater than he could recall ever being in before, other than in battle, he had stalked up and down outside the palace cursing Flavia and contemplating his options. He had to extract himself from Messalina’s debt before she could call it in. Once he had begun to compose himself he thought of a way to do so without mortgaging any of his property; however, he still had no idea how to curb his wife’s extravagance and naïvety. That would have to wait, he decided, as Magnus approached and Gaius began to dismiss his clients.

‘You don’t look too pleased,’ Magnus commented.

‘That’s because I’m not. I need you to do something for me,’ Vespasian replied, pulling his friend to one side to explain the situation.

Magnus stared at Vespasian for a few moments in amazement, and then burst into a roar of laughter. ‘You’ve taken a loan? I never thought I’d see the day.’

‘Keep your voice down! I’ve not taken a loan, Flavia has.’

‘Well, it’s the same thing, ain’t it? She’s your wife so you’re responsible for her actions.’

‘I know; and the stupid woman doesn’t realise the danger that she’s put me in because her vanity can’t see past the glory of being on good terms with the Empress and wants to milk the jealousy that it provokes in other women.’

‘I did warn you about marrying a woman with expensive tastes.’

‘Saying “I told you so” gets me nowhere; and you were wrong, by the way; she didn’t get herself two hairdressers.’

‘No?’

‘No, she got three!’

‘I seem to remember saying that she would need at least two, so I was right, but I won’t rub it in. So what is it you want me to do?’

‘I need cash and I need it fast without borrowing against my property so I want you to find that slave-dealer, Theron, and bring him to me with all the money that he owes me. He should either be in Rome or at Capua.’

‘Fair enough, sir; that won’t be a problem.’

‘Thank you, Magnus,’ Vespasian said, hastening to finish the conversation as he saw Sabinus approaching.

‘I imagine that you’ll not want me to mention your loan to your brother?’

Vespasian scowled while Magnus tried but failed to hide a grin, and then turned to greet his brother, who looked as sombre as the situation dictated.

‘I’ve written a new will,’ Sabinus said, handing Vespasian a scroll. ‘I haven’t had time to lodge it with the Vestals so will you keep it and read it if it becomes necessary?’

Vespasian’s personal worries disappeared as he was confronted with the reality that Sabinus may well not see the day’s dusk. He took the scroll and placed it in the fold of his toga. ‘Of course, brother; but it won’t come to that.’

Sabinus’ look made Vespasian regret his crass remark; only Narcissus could make that decision.

‘Dear boys,’ Gaius said with less of a boom than was normal, having dismissed the last of his sixty or so clients, ‘I trust we have all made the necessary sacrifices to the relevant gods? We’ll need their help today.’

As Vespasian followed his uncle and brother he was only too aware that he had been so angry he had completely neglected to appeal for divine protection. It was with a prayer to Mars running through his head and a promise of a sacrifice at the close of the day that he entered the palace and submitted to the body-search that was now compulsory for anyone wishing to come into the presence of the Emperor.

A slave was waiting for them in the atrium, which was alive with imperial functionaries, the products of the bureaucracy that Narcissus, Pallas and Callistus had created since their master had come to power. ‘Follow me, masters.’

They were led through the high, wide and labyrinthine corridors of the palace complex, every echoing step becoming heavier as the weight of the power within the building seemed to grow and oppress them. Each felt helpless; their destinies were now out of their hands. They were to be used as pawns in the political manoeuvrings, for his own personal gain, of a man of inferior birth who had become the most powerful person in the Empire.

Vespasian felt the bile rise in his throat, knowing that there was nothing that they could do. They could not run or hide or plead for mercy. For a few moments he envied Corbulo the certainties of the military camp, of which he had spoken so wistfully, and the decent Roman values of discipline and honour. But a career in Rome could not be forged by military achievement alone if a man was to rise; the politics had to be endured. All they could do now was accept their positions in this most hierarchical of societies; to do otherwise would mean exclusion and that would lead to obscurity. And that, for their family’s honour, they could not countenance.

Vespasian followed the slave out of a side door of the palace and across a garden, walled off from the outside world with no sign of a gate, and then through a second door and on into another building. After they had turned a couple of corners recognition hit him with a jolt. ‘This is the Lady Antonia’s house, Uncle,’ he said with some surprise.

‘It was Antonia’s house; now, of course, it belongs to Claudius. However, he gave it to Messalina last year because she told him that she wanted somewhere quiet to keep out of his way whilst he dealt with the weighty matters of state.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Exactly.’

The presence of the slave meant they could say no more, but Vespasian understood well enough what the house of his old benefactress was now used for.

They turned another corner and Vespasian recognised the corridor in which Antonia had confronted Sejanus, all those years ago, as Sabinus, Caligula and he had hidden behind an unlocked door; it was to this very door that the slave led them, ushering them in with a bow to a small room, no more than an ante-chamber, sparsely furnished with three stools. Narcissus and Pallas waited within, along with two Praetorian centurions.

‘Good morning, senators,’ Narcissus said, waving the slave away. ‘I’m sure that you remember this room and the view that it has into the house’s formal reception room.’ He indicated the curtain through which the brothers and Caligula had spied on Sejanus on the evening that they had rescued Caenis from his and his lover Livilla’s clutches. Since then the curtain had been replaced with one of a finer material and the room beyond was visible so that the features of those already within could be discerned. ‘I want you to be able to see and hear the proceedings so that when I call upon you to speak you will be able to answer the questions asked of you with the benefit of knowing how the arguments have been made.’

‘Or what I was supposed to have said, I suppose,’ Gaius muttered.

Narcissus looked at him in surprise. ‘Exactly. So you’ve worked out why you’re here.’

‘Vespasian did.’

Narcissus gave Vespasian an appreciative look. ‘You’ll make a politician yet.’

‘I don’t think I have the stomach for it.’

‘It has nothing to do with your stomach but, rather, your natural instinct to survive.’

‘I have that all right; we all do. That’s why we’re here and not helping Sabinus into a warm bath and giving him a sharp knife.’

Gaius looked into the brightly lit reception room where Asiaticus sat in profile, guarded by Crispinus, opposite a dais with two chairs upon it, and then turned nervously to Narcissus. ‘Won’t people see that we’re in here?’

‘No, this room is much darker; from out there you can see nothing through the curtain so no one will know that you’re here except Pallas and me as well as these two gentlemen.’ He indicated to the centurions. ‘They are here to ensure that, on the off-chance that Claudius or Messalina order the curtain to be drawn back, I can’t be accused of putting their lives in danger seeing as you are being guarded by two seasoned killers.’ With a curt nod of his head, Narcissus walked past them to the door. ‘You’ll be called if and when you’re needed.’

As Pallas followed him he whispered, ‘Remember that whatever happens I’ll try and secure the best outcome for you all.’

Vespasian watched him go and then looked at his brother and uncle; neither would meet his eye as they struggled with their own thoughts. Two men entered the reception room; one, whom Vespasian recognised as Lucius Vitellius, sat next to Asiaticus and the other, whom he guessed was Suillius, took his place next to the dais. Claudius’ freedmen then made their appearance and placed themselves on three chairs in a row, facing Vespasian, between the accused and the imperial seats. Vespasian slumped down onto a stool, feeling his belly churn — more violently, even, than before combat, when at least a man holds his life in his own hands — and, with an increasing sense of helplessness, waited for the arrival of the Emperor and Empress.