Rome's lost son

CHAPTER XVII

‘So where are you going to keep them?’ Magnus asked as he and Vespasian watched the five stallions being led at dawn down the gangplank of the wide-bellied trader in which they had made the journey from Caesarea to Claudius’ new port on the northern bank of the Tiber estuary. Built around a central, manmade peninsula, supporting the biggest lighthouse in the world after the Pharos in Alexandria, the modern port could hold double the amount of ships than its older, fouler-smelling rival, Ostia, on the southern bank of the estuary. Equipped with tall cranes and lined with warehouses, the quay bustled with activity as trading ships from all over the Empire were offloaded of the essentials that would keep the Roman mob fed and docile and the luxuries that kept Rome’s élite contented.

They had hauled-to just up the coast overnight and had entered the magnificent, circular construction in the half-light before dawn. But despite it being his first time in the new port, as the sun rose, Vespasian only had eyes for his horses. ‘You keep on asking me that,’ he replied, admiring the beasts’ condition after twenty days at sea.

‘And you keep on avoiding giving an answer.’

‘That’s because you keep on trying to persuade me to give them to your beloved Greens.’

‘Not give them but loan them. What else are they for other than racing? Look at them, they’re magnificent.’

And they were magnificent; Vespasian could not deny that, nor, for that matter, could anyone with an eye for horse-flesh. Five Arabian Greys: dished profiles, arched necks, level croups and high carried tails; they were beautiful and drew looks and comments of admiration from everyone on the crowded quayside watching them disembark. The stallions, for their part, seemed to realise that they were the objects of much attention and responded by tossing their heads and snorting while regarding the onlookers with their intelligent dark eyes, their high-stepping hoofs clattering down onto the stone quay lined with recently built brick warehouses.

‘Malichus even gave you five,’ Magnus went on, his expression increasingly anxious, ‘so that you’ve always got a spare.’

‘I don’t gamble, Magnus.’

Magnus winced in frustration, clenching his fists by his side. ‘How many times must I tell you: it’s not gambling! You don’t have to bet on them; all you have to do is watch them win.’

‘And what do I get from that?’

‘I’ve told you, we can work something out with the Greens. My mate Lucius, one of your clients, well, he’s quite high up with the Greens now. You can get him to organise a meeting with the faction-master and come to some financial arrangement. Then the horses can live at the Greens’ stables on the Campus Martius, you can visit them whenever you like, take them for a spin around the Circus Flaminius now and again if you want, and meanwhile the faction pays for their very expensive upkeep and you share the profits of their prize money when they win. Not to mention the stud price of five champions; you’ll make a fortune from that. I can’t see what the problem is.’ Magnus threw his arms in the air in frustration as he had done many times during the voyage; it had been a daily subject of conversation as they spent their time watching the two slaves who had come with the gift taking care of their charges.

Vespasian kept his face solemn although inwardly he was laughing; he had already decided to have a conversation with Lucius the following day, at his first morning salutio upon his return. Ever since Magnus had suggested the idea of loaning the horses to the Greens, Vespasian had been in favour of the notion, if only because the expense of looking after five such valuable creatures would be met by someone else. However, to help pass the time he had not shared his agreement with Magnus and his friend’s attempts at convincing him had grown more desperate by the day. When Vespasian had suggested, innocently, that Magnus should perhaps make enquiries of the Whites, Reds and Blues to see if they would be interested and so have a bargaining point to get a better deal — should he eventually decide to race them — his friend had almost screamed in horror and his good eye had stared at him with almost the same blank, uncomprehending expression as his glass one. ‘I’ll think about it,’ Vespasian said, using his stock conversation closer that had served him well over the voyage. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He pulled up the hood of his travel cloak partially concealing his face, and followed the horses down the gangplank, leaving Magnus looking with yearning at the five stallions, shaking his head incredulously; no doubt, Vespasian thought, calculating how much money he could win by betting on them the first time they raced.

Keeping his head bowed so as to be unrecognisable, Vespasian slipped into the crowd, leaving Magnus and Hormus to bring the luggage and the horses while he went ahead, incognito, so that news of his arrival back in Rome would not be generally known until after he had spoken to his uncle.

‘Vespasian!’ Flavia blurted in shock as her husband walked into the atrium of their house in Pomegranate Street on the Quirinal Hill, halfway through the third hour of the day. She covered her open mouth with both hands before running and flinging herself, in a very un-Roman-like fashion, at the man she had not seen for almost three years. ‘I thought that you were dead, we all did, until Pallas told us a couple of months ago that you were in Ctesiphon.’

Vespasian held his wife close, marvelling at just how pleased he was to see her. He signalled with his head that the two waiting slaves should leave the room. ‘There was a time when I thought I was dead too. How are you, Flavia?’

Flavia pulled away and looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears; suddenly they hardened and she brought her right palm across his face in a brutal slap. ‘How do you think I am after you go missing for such a long time? You didn’t even write!’ Another slap stung his cheek and Vespasian was forced to grab both his wife’s arms to restrain her.

‘Calm yourself, woman. Of course I didn’t write; I was in a cell for two years that wasn’t equipped with letter-writing materials.’ He pulled her back to him and felt the sobs shuddering up from deep within her. He stroked her hair and murmured soothing words in her ear as Flavia let out the anguish of the past few years, drenching his tunic with her tears.

‘Are you going to leave me on my own for years on end again, husband?’ Flavia asked as she began to pull herself together.

Not being possessed of foresight, Vespasian could not say, although he rather thought that the answer was affirmative. ‘How are the children?’ he asked to change the subject.

Flavia wiped her eyes on his damp tunic, leaving black smudges of kohl, and attempted a smile. ‘Little Domitilla is as all small girls should be: mischievous and dutiful in equal measure. She’ll just want to hold your hand all the time. Domitian may notice you but only if you give him something; but make sure it’s just for him as he’s a three year old with no concept of sharing. It’s Titus, though, who’s going to be so pleased to see you; for the last year when he gave up all hope of you being alive he … well, he wasn’t good. Britannicus was a great comfort to him and he spent most of the time with him at the palace; he’s there now, I’ll send him a message telling him to come here.’

‘Tell him that I’ll be at my uncle’s house.’

Flavia kissed him on the mouth, biting his bottom lip. ‘Are you going to stay here tonight?’

‘I’ll be back later, my dear; but I need to have a long conversation with him before I do anything.’ He smiled down at Flavia. ‘But I don’t have to go for an hour or so, not until Magnus has arrived.’ Returning the kiss with a suggestion of more passionate ones to come, Vespasian led his wife by the hand towards their bedroom.

‘I’ve sent a message to my mate Lucius at the Greens’ stables telling him that you’re back,’ Magnus said matter-of-factly, as if it was the most natural thing to do.

‘Oh yes?’ Vespasian kept his voice disinterested as they walked the couple of hundred paces to Gaius’ house at the commencement of the fifth hour of the day.

‘Yeah, I thought he should know that his patron was back so that he didn’t miss the salutio tomorrow morning.’

‘That was very thoughtful of you, Magnus; although it was unnecessary as my clients have been attending my uncle whilst I’ve been away.’

Magnus looked sidelong at Vespasian, grunted and then walked on in silence. ‘There was hardly enough room in the stables behind your house,’ he suddenly blurted out after a few more paces. ‘Not for all five of them anyway, the slaves told me.’

Vespasian was well aware of this as he had visited the stables when the stallions had arrived, once he had finished attending to Flavia. ‘I’m sure they’ll be fine in there. If it is a bit cramped I could always move a couple into my uncle’s stables, or Caenis’ for that matter.’

Magnus gave another sidelong glance, this time more nervous. Vespasian pretended that he had not noticed it as they arrived at Gaius’ front door. He gave it a loud knock; the viewing slat slipped back, followed a moment later by the door being opened by a youth of outstanding beauty with long blond hair and a very short tunic.

Having never seen this young slave of Gaius’ before, Vespasian named himself and sent the lad off to fetch his master. ‘Uncle Gaius must be doing rather well for himself if he can afford something that good-looking,’ Vespasian mused as they followed the door-boy through the vestibule and on into the atrium.

‘He’s always had a good eye for a boy,’ Magnus affirmed, watching the retreating boy’s buttocks move beneath the tunic that only occasionally concealed their entirety. ‘Just as well Hormus isn’t in his household otherwise he’d have to be sharing them.’

The boy knocked on Gaius’ study door, then opened it and announced Vespasian’s arrival.

‘Dear boy,’ Gaius boomed, waddling out from his study and into the atrium, ‘I’m so pleased to see you; we had all but given up hope.’ He turned to the door-boy. ‘Tell the cook that there’ll be two more guests for lunch; and have wine and honeyed cakes brought out to the garden.’

‘Two more guests, Uncle?’ Vespasian said as he subjected himself to Gaius’ flabby embrace. ‘Who else is here?’

‘Just me,’ Pallas said, walking out from Gaius’ study. ‘When I heard that you’d arrived in Rome I guessed that this would be the first place you would come, despite my brother writing to me to say that he’d given you my message.’

‘I confess that I’m very pleased to see you alive, Vespasian,’ Pallas said once the four of them were seated in the last remaining patch of shade in the courtyard garden.

‘I don’t suppose Agrippina shares your enthusiasm,’ Vespasian replied, still angered by Pallas’ presence, which prevented him from gaining an advance insight from his uncle into the state of Rome’s politics; neither the gentle patter of the fountain in Gaius’ lamprey pond nor the sound of birdsong floating on the warm air did anything to soothe him.

Pallas helped himself to a cake. ‘She has yet to hear the news; but I doubt she will care one way or the other as she feels, at the moment, that her position is absolutely secure.’

‘I’ve never known anything to be absolutely secure in Rome,’ Gaius observed through a mouthful of cake, ‘least of all one’s position.’

‘Claudius is due to address the Senate this afternoon after he’s finished celebrating the Meditrinalia in honour of this year’s new wine vintage. Agrippina and I fully expect him to confirm Nero as his sole heir as, since he married his stepsister, he is much more than just the Emperor’s adopted son. It may not have pleasant consequences for his natural son as Nero will remain the only possible heir to Claudius until the day before the Ides of February next year.’

Vespasian frowned. ‘How can you be so specific?’

‘Because that is the day when Britannicus turns fourteen, the earliest possible time that he can come of age and therefore be a real threat to Agrippina’s ambitions.’

‘And your ambitions too, surely, Pallas?’

Pallas inclined his head to concede the point. ‘So, obviously she … we have a timetable.’

‘Does that mean what I think it means?’

‘I don’t think that we want to know exactly what that means,’ Gaius put in quickly, giving Vespasian a worried look; he fortified his nerves with another cake.

Pallas studied Vespasian over the rim of his cup as he took a sip of wine. ‘I believe it does,’ he said eventually, placing the cup back down on the table.

Pallas looked at Magnus and raised his eyebrows.

‘I’ll just, er … go and wait inside,’ Magnus said, getting to his feet.

‘Thank you, Magnus.’ Pallas waited until Magnus had left the garden, which he did at speed. ‘What we’re doing is for the good of Rome.’

‘Believe what you like, Pallas,’ Vespasian said, somewhat more tersely than he meant to, mainly because he knew that in supporting the Nero faction he was giving tacit consent to murder.

‘I do believe it.’

‘But assassination is still murder.’

‘And who are you to condemn murder?’

Vespasian smiled wryly. ‘I’ll never be allowed to forget killing Poppaeus.’

‘Murder stays with you for life; but it wasn’t Poppaeus I was alluding to, it was Caligula’s and your brother’s part in it that you helped to cover up. You didn’t condemn him for killing an emperor, why should you condemn me? Especially when the emperor in question is now so constantly drunk that it’s almost impossible to get any sense out of him at any time of the day.’

With a jolt, Vespasian suddenly understood that it was not Britannicus that Pallas and Agrippina planned to murder, but the Emperor.

Gaius too made the connection and got to his feet in a state of alarm. ‘I think there is some urgent correspondence that needs my attention in my study.’

‘Sit down, Senator Pollo, you are already involved.’ Pallas’ voice, normally so level and measured, was harsh and Gaius sat back down sharply, causing his wickerwork chair to creak in protest. ‘I apologise for my tone, Gaius; my nerves are very stretched at present.’

Vespasian could see the tension in the freedman’s expression; his face had always been a mask, betraying nothing of his thoughts, but now that mask was slipping. ‘So how are you going to achieve this?’

‘Agrippina will be responsible for doing it.’

‘Poison, then?’

Pallas nodded and drained his cup; his mask had returned and he showed nothing of his thoughts for or against the woman’s weapon of poison. ‘It will be done over a period of time with small doses and will be complete before Britannicus comes of age. It will appear as if it were a natural death; no one will suspect a thing. What I need of you two gentlemen is to ensure that the Senate doesn’t dawdle this time in proclaiming Nero the new emperor. As soon as you hear the news of Claudius’ death you must insist upon a full meeting of the Senate and both speak for Nero.’

Gaius did not look enamoured of the prospect. ‘That will make us very conspicuous.’

‘It will also serve to draw the venom that Agrippina harbours for Vespasian, Gaius. I made him a promise, when he went to the East at my bidding, to help protect him from her; this is me making good that promise. I’m trusting you both with advance knowledge of an emperor’s death so that you can be the first to hail his successor; that should be the sort of conspicuousness that is a benefit not a curse.’

Gaius mumbled thanks and apologies at the same time and then tried to cover his embarrassment by tucking into the last cake.

Pallas took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘But before I give my full and unequivocal support to Agrippina and Nero I need to know if she has committed any treason by colluding with Rome’s enemies that could be used against her and therefore against me.’ He turned to Vespasian and waited for him to speak.

Vespasian spoke for almost an hour recounting his conversations with Sabinus, Tryphaena, Paelignus, Vologases and Felix. When he was finished Pallas sat in thoughtful silence. ‘Tryphaena?’ he said after a while. ‘So the embassy wasn’t Parthian after all but her people masquerading as such. I suppose that the leaders of the northern tribes wouldn’t know the difference between a real and a fake Parthian. In reality they probably just spent a few days of meaningless conversation with the embassy, having no idea that they were being deceived; but it was enough to make us suspicious. It was just all about timing; that explains it.’ He gave a rare smile. ‘Narcissus was wrong; Agrippina had nothing to do with it.’ His smile broadened. ‘That’s a great weight cleared from my mind. If she’s not vulnerable to the accusation of treason then I can feel safe enough to press ahead with our arrangements. Tryphaena has prepared the ground for us very well indeed; there is even an Armenian delegation just arrived in the city to plead with the Emperor to send in more troops. Luring Parthia into a war with Rome has done everything that she hoped. People are now openly blaming Claudius for the instability in the East; only a couple of days ago a series of senators spoke against him in the Senate — in guarded terms, admittedly, but still against him.’

Gaius nodded, licking crumbs from his fingers. ‘I was there; it made me rather uneasy. Can you imagine anyone doing that with Caligula?’

‘Or, for that matter, in the early days of Claudius’ reign?’ Pallas contemplated that for a few moments. ‘No, it has weakened him; that and his drinking as well as all the stories whispered by Seneca and Burrus, exaggerating Nero’s capabilities and intelligence; people are now ready for a change. Especially since Paelignus came back to Rome boasting of how he lost a couple of fingers while he bloodied the Parthian nose but was then forced to withdraw because of lack of reinforcements.’

‘Paelignus is back?’ Vespasian felt a surge of hatred for the odious little procurator who had cost him two years of his life.

‘Yes, and foolishly he’s let it be known that he was very wealthy again with what he brought back and then what he inherited on the death of his father last year. Claudius made him a senator now that he’s passed the financial threshold and has since, when sober, been systematically stripping him of his new wealth at the gaming table.’

‘I’d like to strip him of a lot more than that. He betrayed me to the Parthians in Armenia.’

‘Did he now? That’s not how Paelignus tells it.’ Pallas held Vespasian’s gaze. ‘You’ll have the perfect opportunity for revenge for what he did to you in Armenia in the blood-letting that will follow Nero’s ascension.’

‘And will there be much?’

‘I hope not. If, between Seneca, Burrus and myself, we can keep Nero in line then he could make a fine emperor; at least at the beginning.’

That was not Vespasian’s reading of Nero’s character. ‘And after the beginning?’

‘We’ll see what happens once power ceases to be a novelty. The important thing is for him not to think that the Senate are against him, as Claudius did at the start of his reign; and that will be down to you two. Emphasise in your speeches that Nero will show strength from the very start by prosecuting the war in Armenia that Vologases is so considerately continuing for both our sakes.’

Vespasian had a moment of clarity. ‘If it’s strength that he wants to portray then he should also do something here, something tangible that both the Senate and the people will respect.’

Pallas was interested. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Your brother’s warning about this Jewish cult; have Nero take a personal interest in stamping them out in Rome.’

‘A couple of years ago, while you were away, Claudius expelled a whole load of people, Jews and otherwise, for worshipping somebody called Chrestus; is that the same thing?’

‘Probably; but does it matter? The important thing is to unite the majority of the people behind the new Emperor by vilifying a dangerous minority and exterminating them.’

Pallas got to his feet. ‘Yes, that should bring about a communal sense of wellbeing; especially if we can find a couple of higher profile members of this cult. Gaius, I’m afraid that I have to decline your kind offer to stay for lunch; I need to get back to the Palatine to escort Claudius to the Senate. No need to get up, gentlemen; I trust that you will be present to hear the Emperor speak at the seventh hour?’ Without waiting for a reply he walked out of the garden, leaving Gaius sweating with fear of knowledge that he would rather not have possessed and Vespasian contemplating his revenge on Paelignus.

‘Father!’ Titus called as he entered the garden with Magnus shortly after Pallas had left. With a distinct lack of decorum he ran to Vespasian, who stood and returned his son’s embrace with equal measure.

Making a conscious effort not to comment on how much Titus had grown or coming out with any of the other stock phrases that always seem to accompany a reunion with a child after some considerable time, Vespasian took his son by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length, admiring him.

‘I nearly choked when he was let in,’ Magnus said. ‘I thought it was you at the age when we first met.’

‘There’s no denying your paternity, Vespasian,’ Gaius added, pleased to have a pleasant family observation to make to take his mind off what Pallas had revealed.

Titus was indeed the younger image of his father, stocky, round-faced with a prominent nose and humorous eyes; the one difference was that he lacked the permanent strained expression, as if he was having difficulty at stool, which Vespasian had developed during his time commanding the II Augusta.

‘I thought we’d lost you, Father,’ Titus said after a few moments of staring at each other.

Vespasian fingered Titus’ toga praetexta, the purple-bordered toga worn by magistrates as well as boys who had not yet come of age. ‘You’ll be fifteen in December, won’t you, Titus?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Then we’d better do something about this. Tomorrow I shall declare you to be a man.’

Titus beamed at Vespasian. ‘Thank you, Father. May I ask Britannicus to come and witness it?’

‘Lunch is ready, master,’ Gaius’ steward announced from the door.

Gaius’ face lit up. ‘At last, Ewald; I’m famished.’

Vespasian put his arm around Titus’ shoulder and led him towards the house. ‘I must insist upon you not seeing Britannicus for a while, Titus.’

‘But what about our lessons together and our riding and sword play?’

‘They’re going to have to be suspended.’

Titus stopped and looked at his father as Magnus and Gaius walked on. ‘Are you telling me that Nero is about to become emperor?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because I know what will happen; Britannicus told me. Claudius will be assassinated, Nero will become emperor and Britannicus’ life will be over. He’s no fool, Britannicus. He knows that Claudius must die before he comes of age in order for Nero to become emperor unopposed; it’s obvious, therefore, that he’ll be assassinated sometime in the New Year. I assume that you telling me that I’ve got to break my ties with Britannicus is because you’ve found out about the assassination. Pallas’ presence here means that he’s told you so that you can be prepared to work for him in the Senate, supporting Nero.’

Vespasian was astounded. ‘Did you work all that out yourself?’

‘The part about the reason for Pallas being here, yes, but all the rest was with Britannicus.’

‘Has he told his father?’

Titus was dismissive. ‘Of course; but Claudius won’t listen and just laughs it off and says “good luck to you, my boy” as if Fortuna can postpone the inevitable. He’s told Britannicus that once he reaches his fourteenth birthday he’ll change his will and make Britannicus his heir instead of Nero.’ Titus gave a grim chuckle. ‘Claudius is as stupid as Britannicus is clever and if Claudius chooses to do nothing then both their deaths will be inevitable. Britannicus does get some comfort from the fact that his idiot father will die before him; but I’ll get no comfort from losing my friend who helped me keep my mind off you when we thought you were …’ Titus trailed off, evidently embarrassed to display such sentiments.

‘You mustn’t say a word of this to anyone, Titus.’

‘Of course not, Father; unlike Claudius, I’m blessed with a brain.’

Vespasian looked into his son’s eyes, assessing him for the first time as an adult and not a child any more. ‘Yes, I can see that, and so I will trust you. You’re right: Pallas is planning Claudius’ death and Nero’s ascension. I will aid him for two reasons: firstly, I have no choice, and secondly, even if I did have a choice, I believe that this is the best for our family. So your friend’s life is over, I’m afraid.’

Anger flared for a brief moment in Titus’ eyes and the muscles in his jaw pulsed; he took a deep breath. ‘Now do you see how important it is for Britannicus to be present at my coming of age ceremony, Father? He’s never going to have his own so he would dearly love to see mine.’

Vespasian thought about it for a few moments and then sentimentality, for once, got the better of cold reason. ‘Very well, Titus, you can invite him; tell him to be at our house tomorrow at the second hour of the day, after I’ve finished greeting my clients.’

‘Of course, not all your clients have remained loyal,’ Gaius said, wiping his lips, moist with the juice of a pear that had rounded off the light lunch of bread, cold meats and fruit. ‘They all attended me for the first six months or so, once I got back, but then after you hadn’t been heard of for a while a few started to cultivate other senators.’

Vespasian swung his feet off his couch for one of Gaius’ boys to slip on his red, senatorial shoes. ‘Who, Uncle?’

‘Generally, the sitting consuls and praetors.’

‘No, I meant which of my clients?’

‘Oh, I see. I don’t have their names to hand but I know that Ewald has a list. He’ll give it to you before you leave.’

The steward acknowledged his master’s wish and went in search of the document.

Vespasian stood and allowed the boy to begin draping his toga around him. ‘Thank you, Uncle; if there is one thing that I can’t abide, it’s ingratitude.’

‘My feelings exactly, dear boy; that’s why I had Ewald make up the list,’ Gaius said as he patted his tonged curls into place with the help of a bronze mirror held up by another of his slave boys. ‘We should hurry if we want to be at the Senate House before Claudius starts his address; assuming, of course, that he hasn’t imbibed too much of this year’s vintage in his enthusiasm for the Meditrinalia. If Pallas is right then the Emperor’s going to set himself up for the most enormous, and fatal, piece of ingratitude.’