Rome's lost son

CHAPTER XVIII

The people of Rome interrupted their business and cheered their Emperor as he passed, borne in a litter preceded by twelve lictors, down the Via Sacra from the Palatine to the Forum Romanum. They cheered and waved and applauded and then, as soon as the rearmost litter-bearer had passed, they immediately returned to their more pressing affairs, leaving the cheering to those further down the route so that the praise rippled down the street, desultory and conspicuously lacking the enthusiasm with which they had lauded Claudius at the beginning of his reign.

Claudius, for his part, either did not, or affected not to notice the lack of fervour with which he was received by his people; he reclined on his litter, hailing the crowd with a shaking arm — as much due to excessive drink as it was to his afflictions — while his head twitched erratically and his slack mouth oozed drool that he occasionally dabbed at with a handkerchief.

Two centuries of German Imperial Guardsmen surrounded the Emperor, tall and muscled, their hair and beards long but well groomed; their right hands gripped their sword hilts, ready for immediate action. They loped by with long strides, their barbarian trousers and strange tattoos reminding the people of Rome just how removed the Emperor was from them. But still they cheered, if only the bare minimum to ensure that Claudius was not insulted and would not decide to spend less money on the Ludi Augustales, the ten days of games that cumulated in the Augustalia, the celebration of the first Emperor’s achievements, due to be marked on the following day, three days before the Ides of October.

Vespasian stood next to Gaius amongst the other five hundred or so senators currently present in the city on the steps of the Curia, ready to welcome their Emperor. It had clouded over and a light rain now fell from the dull sky, dampening the wool of their togas and bringing out the scent of the urine in which they were washed.

The procession turned into the Forum and transactions along the arcades and the damp, open-air trial came to a brief halt, for politeness’ sake, until, with the Emperor’s passing, they could continue.

‘He does look his age,’ Vespasian commented out of the corner of his mouth as Claudius’ litter was set down at the foot of the steps. Pallas and Narcissus both accompanied it; the latter, with swollen ankles and making heavy use of a walking stick.

‘He looks eighty-four, not sixty-four,’ Gaius muttered. ‘He’s the same age as me and Magnus yet he looks as if he could be our father; his trouble is that he doesn’t abstain enough.’

Vespasian looked pointedly at his uncle’s corpulence. ‘Whereas you do, Uncle?’

Gaius rubbed his ample belly with affection, obscured not in the slightest by the copious folds of his toga. ‘A well-rounded physique is not necessarily the sign of reckless overindulgence; whereas bloodshot, baggy eyes that lack focus and a florid, to say the least, complexion does hint of excessive consumption of the fruit of Bacchus. And that, along with his almost complete baldness, his sagging arse and breasts, makes him look twenty years older than me and helps me to feel remarkably good about myself.’

Vespasian could not argue, for his uncle’s description of the ageing Emperor was very accurate; he looked even more ravaged than Tiberius had at the age of seventy-three, when Vespasian had been brought before him on his island hideaway of Capreae, twenty-four years before.

‘Moreover,’ Gaius continued in a whisper as the litter came to a halt in front of the Senate House, ‘it’s affected his mind; his grasp on detail has faded and his literary endeavours are so rambling now as to be barely intelligible.’

Pallas helped Claudius to his unsteady feet; he had evidently taken the Meditrinalia very seriously that morning. Claudius looked around at the senators, his eyes red and dewy and slightly downturned like his mouth, before shambling up the steps in a series of weak-kneed lurches, forcing his lictors to ascend faster than dignity dictated.

As Claudius passed, wreathed in a mist of wine fumes, Vespasian’s eye caught that of Narcissus as he followed his patron up the steps next to Pallas. The Greek showed a rare hint of surprise as he registered that the man whom he had sent out East to investigate his suspicions about the Parthian embassy was indeed back in Rome and had failed to inform him of the fact.

‘Senator?’ Narcissus crooned as he paused next to Vespasian. ‘You will, of course, come and see me at your earliest convenience?’

‘Of course, imperial secretary,’ Vespasian replied, unable to envisage a time of any convenience.

Narcissus nodded and then hobbled on after Claudius as the senators crowded up the steps in his wake, talking loudly of their eagerness to hear the Emperor’s speech while thinking quietly about how they were going to stay awake during what was normally an hour or two of eye-wateringly pedantic tedium.

‘The auspices from the sacrifice are good for the business of Rome. The Senate calls on our beloved Emperor, Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, to address the House,’ the Junior Consul, Marcus Asinius Marcellus, declaimed, standing next to the seated Claudius; behind him, in what was an outrage that had now become so commonplace that nobody remarked on it any more, sat Pallas and Narcissus.

‘I’m g-g-grateful, Conshul,’ Claudius said, remaining in his curule chair and unrolling what looked to be an unusually thick scroll; even the most ardent sycophants’ morale plummeted at the sight of it, for a long, stuttering speech from Claudius was not for the faint-hearted, especially when he was so obviously drunk. ‘C-c-consh-script Fathers, I am here t-t-t-to speak t-t-t-to you on the shub-b-bject of inheritansh.’

Vespasian kept his most attentive expression activated as his mind began to filter out the stream of legal precedent, rambling pedantry and patronisingly self-satisfied references to the ways of the ancestors, punctuated only by brief pauses for dabbing at the excess drool issuing from both corners of his mouth and the constant stream of slimy mucus oozing from his left nostril.

Vespasian’s eyes roved the four rows of senators, sitting on their folding stools on the opposite side of the Curia. There were more than a few new faces as a result of Claudius’ perpetual tinkering with the senatorial rolls but there were many whom he recognised: Sabinus’ son-in-law, Lucius Junius Paetus, was seated next to Vespasian’s former thick-stripe military tribune in the II Augusta, Gaius Licinius Mucianus; both men inclined their heads towards him as they became aware of his gaze. That they should be sitting together was no surprise to Vespasian; what was surprising was who was sitting on Paetus’ other side: Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus, the brother of the late Empress Messalina. Corvinus assiduously kept his eyes away from Vespasian; his old enemy was still keeping his promise to conduct himself as a dead man in Vespasian’s presence in return for Vespasian saving his life during the downfall of his sister. Vespasian, murmuring agreement and nodding in time with the rest of the Senate as they endured Claudius’ speech, wondered what could have possibly brought two senators, both indebted to him, so close to his sworn enemy. One thing was sure: a man was judged by whom he sat next to in the Senate. As he contemplated the question his eye wandered to another unlikely threesome: Servius Sulpicius Galba seated between the two Vitellius brothers, Lucius and Aulus. Aulus acknowledged Vespasian with studied noncommittal written on his face; their paths had first crossed on Capreae when Aulus’ father had pandered his son to Tiberius who much prized him for his oral favours. There was no sign of the svelte young teenager now; Aulus had run to fat in the last few years, as had his brother Lucius. Galba just stared straight ahead into the middle distance, his gaunt, patrician face struggling to conceal the disgust that he evidently felt at the ancient institution of the Senate being addressed by a stuttering and slavering fool.

Any thoughts about what Galba was doing seated with the Vitellii were pushed from Vespasian’s mind a moment later when his gaze alighted on the man responsible for his two-year exclusion from the human race: Paelignus. The runt of a procurator almost yelped in surprise as their eyes met; Paelignus evidently had no idea that Vespasian was alive, let alone back in Rome, and the way his eyes flicked around the chamber, as if looking for the nearest exit, brought a smile to Vespasian’s face. He nodded at him politely, the smile becoming toothy, and wagged his forefinger at him a couple of times, as if admonishing a naughty child. He was going to enjoy this, Vespasian decided; he would make him suffer before he killed him.

A communal gasp of shock jerked Vespasian back to the matter of Claudius’ speech. Claudius had paused and the few in his audience who had been paying some sort of attention were staring at him with unbelieving countenances while the majority of the Senate were trying to ascertain from neighbours the cause of the astonishment.

Vespasian turned to Gaius, next to him. ‘What did he say, Uncle?’

‘I’ve no idea, dear boy, but one look at the expressions of Pallas and Narcissus should be enough to tell you who has gained from whatever it was.’

Narcissus had the closest Vespasian had ever seen to a smirk on one corner of his mouth, whereas Pallas’ right eye was twitching irregularly.

‘However, I shall g-g-g-go further than that,’ Claudius went on. ‘I p-p-publicly thank my adopted son, Nero, for being pr-pr-prepared to shoulder the responshibilities of my office had I been called to the F-f-f-ferryman; but now ash my natural son, Britannicush, approaches the time when he shall take the toga virilish, Nero has no need to worry himself about taking on the onerous tasks of the Pr-pr-pr-princeps. I release him from that duty with my gratitude and I know that as my adopted son and son-in-law he will support Britannicus when the time comes and be a shoulder of strength for him to lean on.’

Claudius paused again, no doubt thinking that there should be some acknowledgement of the fair and just sentiments that he had expressed. However, there was nothing but a low mumbling as men checked with their neighbours that they had heard correctly.

‘I think the time is coming very, very soon,’ Gaius muttered.

Vespasian just stared at the fool on the curule chair as he continued to hasten his own death by an ill-judged, drunken speech; Gaius had not exaggerated Claudius’ mental decline.

‘That b-b-b-being the case, I feel that it would be right of me to d-divorce my wife, Agrippina, and replace her with someone lessh partial to also act as a guide for Britannicus after I am gone, so I would ask you, C-c-c-consh-script Fathers, to put your minds to thinking of a suitable candidate; someone of high birth, with intelligence, feminine skills and b-b-beauty would pleashe me.’

‘I can almost hear the sound of Agrippina mixing her potions,’ Vespasian whispered.

‘This must be the longest suicide note in history,’ Gaius ventured, staring with barely concealed incredulity at Claudius.

‘I would also ask you, C-c-conscript Fathers, to conshider what rewards should be voted Nero and Agrippina for their service to the Empire; b-b-bronze statues in the Forum, perhaps? Or maybe a gift of land in one of the provinces; perhaps both. I leave it to you. In the meantime, until Britannicush’s fourteenth birthday, you should treat Nero as my heir and honour him as you would honour me. Conscript Fathers, I thank you all for your k-k-kind attention and look forward to hearing the results of your d-deliberations.’ With that he rolled up his scroll and looked around the Senate as if he was expecting thunderous applause for one of the most dexterous and far-sighted pieces of politics ever announced in the ancient chamber.

All that met him was utter and silent astonishment.

And then one senator, less dumbfounded than all the rest, slowly began to clap and then stopped suddenly, realising that to show support for Claudius’ announcement was to invite a death sentence from Nero who would now surely be emperor, if not in a matter of hours then certainly within the next couple of days.

Of that, everybody in the room was sure; even Narcissus, who now stared at his patron with undisguised horror. Pallas, next to him, had his face set resolute; his timetable had just been brought forward considerably.

With a quick glance between them, the two freedmen jumped up from their chairs and walked from the Curia, one on the left-hand side, the other on the right, so that they left at the same time but not together. Claudius watched them go, twitching in confusion, and then got to his feet, steadied himself on the arm of his chair while taking deep breaths and then lurched out after them.

The senators, pleased finally to be able to do something that could not be construed as being for or against the Emperor’s announcement, got to their feet and feted Claudius’ departure with a mighty chant of ‘Hail Caesar!’, each convinced that this was the last time they would see this emperor in the Curia.

As Claudius left the building the Junior Consul brought the session to a close as no further business could possibly be contemplated that day, for the priority of the senators would now be securing their positions during the transfer of power.

‘Extraordinary,’ Gaius said as he folded his chair. ‘He must have drunk more of the new vintage than he poured in libations this morning; it’s the only explanation for such suicidal behaviour.’

‘He was never a politician at the best of times, Uncle, let alone when drunk,’ Vespasian pointed out. ‘He won’t realise what he’s done until he feels the poison burning in his throat. I suppose we’d better spend the rest of the day writing our speeches in praise of Nero.’

They joined the stream of senators making for the doors and, like their peers, struck up an enthusiastic, but inane, conversation about matters of little worth as if nothing of import had occurred in the Senate House that day.

‘I imagine you know why I wanted to talk with you, Lucius,’ Vespasian said, seated at his desk in the tablinum early the following morning. Hormus stood in his normal position at his shoulder, taking notes.

‘Yes, patronus; Magnus has told me all about the team,’ Lucius replied, ‘and I know for sure that the Green faction-master would be very interested in seeing them and if he approves then he would happily take all five into the Greens’ stables. He has a similar arrangement with a couple of other private owners.’

‘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.

With theatrical aplomb the dashing, current heir to the Purple presented the huge prizes to the triumphant Blue charioteers, basking in their glory as if he himself had driven the winning team. From the back of the box, the boy with whom Claudius, in his befuddled mind, planned to replace the glamorous poseur looked on unnoticed by the crowd as his rightful position was unashamedly usurped.

As Nero finished presenting the final prize of the day to the victorious Blues both his mother and Pallas conferred with him. He glanced at Claudius, then over to the senators’ enclosure and then gestured, with studied melodrama, for quiet; almost a quarter of a million people obeyed the request.

‘People of Rome,’ he declaimed in a voice that was husky and far from strong. ‘My father,’ he paused and indicated with a flourish the bewildered sot oblivious to what was happening as he struggled to read the dots on the dice of his latest throw, ‘invites you all to feast at his expense this evening. Tables have been set up throughout the city and will be supplied with food and drink for four hours. He wishes you the joy of the Augustalia!’ Standing side-on, Nero held one hand to his heart and extended the other out and up and then turned slowly to take in the entire screaming crowd. With a flick of his wrist and a downward motion of his arm, he silenced them and turned to the senators’ enclosure. ‘As a personal favour to him, my father requests the company of all senators of Praetorian or consular rank to join him for an intimate dinner at the palace. He expects you there at your earliest convenience.’

Vespasian swore to himself now that his first meeting with Caenis in nearly three years would have to be postponed.

Nero turned back to the crowd and struck a heroic pose, hands on hips, one foot forward, head held high and eyes gazing valiantly into the distance as his adoptive father was helped to the exit, leaving Paelignus, for once, staring at two large piles of winnings, one silver and the other gold.

‘I can’t imagine that he was in any state to make that invitation,’ Gaius observed, watching Claudius being restrained as he lurched to embrace his natural son as he passed.

‘No, Uncle,’ Vespasian replied, ‘it was Pallas and Agrippina who made it.’

Gaius looked over to Agrippina who now held her son’s right arm high in the air as if he had won a race. ‘Oh dear, dear boy, oh dear.’