Rome's lost son

CHAPTER XVIIII

‘N-n-none off yoush shup-p-p-ported me!’ Claudius muttered, returning to his favourite topic of the evening and pointing a trembling finger around the palace’s vast triclinium, built by Caligula. ‘N-n-none of yoush wanted a cr-cr-cripple for your Emperor.’

Not one of the hundred or so senators present bothered to gainsay him; instead they picked in embarrassed silence at the delicacies set on the tables before them and tried not to notice the fact that their Emperor had wet himself.

Agrippina laid a soothing hand on Claudius’ arm and plied him with yet more drink as slaves padded about bringing in fresh dishes and clearing those either empty or cold.

Nero, on the couch to Claudius’ right, took no notice of his drunken adoptive father, preferring instead to alternatively feed titbits to his wife and be fed the same by his slightly older friend, Marcus Salvius Otho.

Vespasian and Gaius reclined to the Emperor’s left, sharing their couch with Pallas; both trying to think of any small talk with which to bridge the uncomfortable near-silence now shrouding the room as Claudius took slow, methodical sips of his refilled cup until it was dry. The feast was in its fourth hour and no one, apart from Nero, could have claimed to be enjoying themselves.

‘Where’s Narcissus?’ Vespasian eventually asked, turning to Pallas.

‘He’s gone to his estate near Veii to try to help relieve his gout.’

‘Voluntarily?’

‘Agrippina did suggest that it might be very good for his health, if you take my meaning, as Magnus would say.’

‘Indeed he would and I do.’

Vespasian cast his eyes around the sombre gathering of Rome’s élite as Claudius slurred on, spiralling down into introspective self-pity as only a man well into his cups can do. Again he noticed Galba was next to the Vitellius brothers, reclining on the same couch, all three of them looking openly disgusted at Claudius’ appearance. As Vespasian began to wonder again just what Galba and the Vitellii were doing together, a pair of pale eyes, which seemed vaguely familiar, caught his gaze; they belonged to a huge man reclining on the couch placed next to Galba’s. The man raised his cup and drank to Vespasian; not wanting to appear rude, Vespasian returned the toast unable to work out where he knew the face from. His hair, clipped short, and clean-shaven face accentuated a vast, bony head, supported by a bull neck that in turn protruded from a powerful torso.

‘Who’s that?’ Vespasian asked Pallas out of the corner of his mouth as he lowered his cup.’

‘Hmm?’ Pallas looked up. ‘Oh, don’t you recognise him? Try adding long hair and moustaches.’

It took Vespasian a couple of moments. ‘Caratacus?’

‘Tiberius Claudius Caratacus, citizen of Rome, recently awarded the rank of praetor and now looking no different from any other Romanised barbarian.’

Caratacus smiled over to him as the recognition of his old enemy spread over Vespasian’s face.

‘He’s a particular favourite of Nero’s,’ Pallas explained, whispering. ‘He likes to have him around to remind everybody of his magnanimity in recommending his pardon. Caratacus is also-’

The arrival of another course interrupted the Greek as Claudius, roused from his melancholy by the smell, blurted, ‘Ah, mushrooms! At lasht something I can trusht.’ He downed the contents of his cup in celebration and then held it out to Agrippina to refill.

The company laughed sycophantically at the poor attempt at wit and then busied themselves in making appreciative noises in anticipation of the tasty dish. Conversation suddenly escalated as all began discourses on the safe topic of mushrooms and their preparation.

An elderly female slave placed a large bowl, with care, on the table in front of the Emperor and Empress, adjusting its angle slightly once it was down. Claudius looked at it with wine-stained drool oozing from his mouth as Agrippina dipped her fingers in and took a small specimen from her side of the dish and savoured its aroma. ‘They’re good, my dear,’ she said before placing it in her mouth.

Claudius watched his wife eat, his eyes struggling to focus.

Agrippina swallowed and smiled at her husband. ‘Delicious.’

Claudius grabbed one from his side of the bowl and chewed on it with gusto as Agrippina helped herself to another; all around the room people tucked into the dish and the atmosphere relaxed now that the Emperor seemed to be more content.

Claudius heaved out a huge belch and then took another couple of slugs of wine before choosing the largest and juiciest of the mushrooms on his side of the bowl and held it up to Agrippina, slurring what Vespasian took to be a phallic joke, judging by the Empress’s dutifully coy reaction. Claudius put the head to his lips and licked it suggestively and then pushed it slowly into his mouth before withdrawing it. Uncharacteristically, Agrippina simpered, but her eyes remained hard, focused on the mushroom. She rubbed Claudius’ thigh and whispered something to him; her mouth then pouted and her head tilted in the affirmative with the promise of a treat to come.

Claudius bit the mushroom in half, slavering on its juices. He swallowed and stuffed the remainder in as Agrippina recharged his cup even though it was not quite empty. A thunderous burp announced the disappearance of the last mouthful; it was quickly washed down with the full contents of the cup. Agrippina immediately refilled it, spilling some over Claudius’ unsteady hand; conversation throughout the room had grown more animated.

Vespasian sipped his wine and nibbled on a mushroom as Gaius, next to him, tucked into their bowl with undisguised relish; Pallas, to his other side, tensed, his hand, white-knuckled, clutching the edge of the couch. Vespasian looked to see what had startled him.

Claudius’ body spasmed, his face a slimed rictus; the contents of his shaking cup slopped over Agrippina who laid a soothing hand on his cheek. The palpitations ceased, his face relaxed and he slumped down, his chest heaving for breath.

Silence spread like a wave throughout the room as people realised that the Emperor had collapsed. Nero stood and looked down at Claudius in wide-eyed, open-mouthed horror with the back of his right hand on his brow like some tragic actor seeing the lifeless body of a lover.

‘My husband has drunk his fill!’ Agrippina announced looking down at the prone form next to her. ‘He has, after all, drunk enough to sink Neptune himself in the last few days.’

Nervous laughter greeted this bald statement of fact, indicating that no one present believed for one moment that it was an alcohol-related incident; however, everyone knew that they would be able to swear to this cover story.

Agrippina turned to an elderly slave woman whom Vespasian recognised as the same woman who had served Claudius his mushrooms. ‘Fetch a bowl and a towel.’ The woman bowed and padded off as Agrippina got to her feet, a picture of unworried calm. ‘I shall have my personal physician attend him to apply an emetic.’ She clapped her hands and four bulky slaves appeared from the shadows around the edge of the room and surrounded Claudius’ couch. ‘I suggest that we curtail our revels; goodnight.’

No one disputed this, although all felt that revels was too strong a word to describe the evening.

‘Not you two,’ Pallas said as Vespasian and Gaius rose to leave, ‘there should be witnesses to the Emperor’s sudden and catastrophic change of health. Stay here and compose your speeches for the Senate tomorrow.’

Vespasian sat down on the edge of the couch and looked around the room; it was emptying of senators apart from six others: Paetus, Mucianus, Corvinus, Galba and the Vitellius brothers. Vespasian now understood why they had been seated together: Pallas had drawn on a cross-section of the Senate to secure Nero into power; a consensual conspiracy with support from all sides would be the most plausible of witnesses to Claudius’ ‘sad and untimely death’.

Gaius evidently realised this too. ‘Oh dear, dear boy, oh dear.’

‘The Emperor has most certainly overconsumed, causing a disproportionate amount of phlegm in his humours; he must vomit some more.’ The bearded Greek physician looked up from his patient satisfied with his diagnosis.

Claudius lay, breathing heavily, on the couch; a pile of vomit, as foul-smelling as it was colourful, was next to his slack mouth.

‘What will you give him, Xenophon?’ Agrippina asked with a voice laden with concern.

‘Nothing; the best thing to do is to tickle the back of his throat.’ Xenophon rummaged in his box and brought out a goose feather; he moved Claudius’ head away from the vomit.

‘Clear that up,’ Agrippina ordered the waiting, elderly female slave.

The woman came forward with a towel and a bowl; she placed the bowl on the couch next to Xenophon and began to scoop up the vomit with the towel.

Xenophon waited, idly playing with the feather, rubbing its tip around the bowl. With the vomit collected the woman placed the full towel into the bowl and took both away.

Xenophon tilted Claudius’ head towards him and opened the jaw. Very delicately he inserted the feather deep down into the throat and wriggled it around; Claudius suddenly convulsed but Xenophon kept the feather in. With a second convulsion the feather and another full slop of vomit were expelled. Nero shrieked as if he had never seen someone vomit before; he put a protective arm around his wife and Otho put a protective arm around him. Claudius seemed to breathe more easily.

Xenophon repeated the procedure and the Emperor vomited again; Nero shrieked again.

‘That should do it,’ Xenophon said. ‘He should be moved to his bed now.’

‘Thank you, doctor,’ Agrippina said as if a huge weight had been lifted. She signalled to the slaves, who lifted Claudius from the couch. As they bore him away he suddenly spasmed a couple of times and cried out in a strangled cry before his arms flopped down beside him, touching the floor.

Agrippina screamed and rushed to his side; Xenophon followed as Vespasian and the rest of the senators watched the dumb-show. Nero howled at the gods, reaching up with his right hand in desperate supplication. Xenophon grabbed Claudius’ wrist, checking for a pulse and then put his fingers to the side of his neck. After a few moments he looked at the Empress and shook his head slowly.

Agrippina drew herself up to her full height and with the most regal expression on her face turned to the witnesses. ‘The Emperor is dead; we shall prepare for the succession.’

Nero stood, his hands half-raised and his eyes staring from beneath arched brows as if miming shock. ‘But Mother, I’m not ready for such a burden.’

Behind her in the shadows the slave woman showed a hint of a smile and slipped away as Burrus and Seneca appeared with an escort of Praetorian Guardsmen. ‘Come, Princeps,’ Burrus said, addressing Nero; a half-smile of triumph flickered briefly across Agrippina’s face.

Nero fell to his knees, his hands clasped between his legs. ‘Oh, to be worthy of that title. Where would you take me?’

Seneca held a hand out and helped Nero up. ‘We shall escort you to the Praetorian camp where you can await the Senate’s confirmation of power.’ He turned to Pallas. ‘Is everything in place?’

Pallas looked at Vespasian and the other senators who had just witnessed the completely deniable public assassination. ‘Yes, Seneca; Galba will summon the Senate soon after dawn and Vespasian will lead their call begging Nero to accept the heavy burden of the Purple.’

Vespasian parted with Gaius at the latter’s front door at the eighth hour of the night and headed, despite the lateness of the hour, to Caenis’ house. He was admitted immediately by the huge Nubian doorman and was surprised to find lamps still burning and the household still up as he walked through the vestibule.

‘The mistress is in her study,’ Caenis’ steward informed him with a deep bow. ‘She said that you were to go straight in.’

Vespasian thanked the man, walked to the last door on the right-hand side of the atrium and opened it; light flooded out.

Caenis looked up from behind her desk; it was covered with scrolls. Crates of scrolls and wax writing tablets were piled all around the room. Without a word she jumped up and ran to him, throwing her arms about his neck as he lifted her off her feet. With their lips glued firmly together he walked her back over to the desk and lay her down, scattering scrolls left and right. Still without saying a word they ripped at each other’s clothing until they were unimpeded and then, with no pause for any intricate delicacies, began the urgent business of pleasuring each other.

‘Narcissus had them sent over just before he left Rome,’ Caenis said in answer to Vespasian’s question about the scrolls, none of which remained on the desk. ‘They contain his entire collection of information on senators and equites as well as his correspondence with all his agents throughout the Empire.’

Vespasian kneeled up on the desk and looked around the study, which resembled a well-used storeroom. He shook his head in amazement. ‘This is invaluable. Why did he trust you with it?’

Caenis sat up and kissed him. ‘Because, my love, I wrote a lot of these whilst I was his secretary; he concluded that he’d be giving away fewer secrets if I looked after them for him than anyone else.’

‘Look after them?’

‘Yes; he knew that they would be stolen if he left them in his apartments at the palace after Agrippina advised him to leave Rome; he didn’t have time to hide them properly so he arranged to have them sent here in secret. He asked me to keep them safe either until he comes back to Rome or until his execution, in which case I’m to burn them to prevent them falling into Nero’s or Agrippina’s hands.’

‘Or Pallas’?’

Caenis raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. ‘That could be up for negotiation.’

‘So you won’t burn them?’

‘I’ll burn most of them; it’ll be too dangerous to keep it all. But you’re assuming that Narcissus will be executed.’

‘Agrippina won’t let him live now she’s had Claudius murdered.’

Caenis took the news calmly as she stood and began to try to bring some sort of order to her dress and coiffure. ‘Already? That was quick; Narcissus thought he’d have another half a month or so.’

‘No, she did it just over an hour ago; a poisoned mushroom to incapacitate him, as if he’d had a seizure after eating and drinking too much, followed by a poisoned feather stuck down the fool’s throat by the doctor pretending to be treating him. It was perfect; made to look like he died of overconsumption. I could even swear to that myself.’

‘Then we’d better get to work.’ Caenis indicated to Narcissus’ intelligence. ‘I want to find some material worth keeping before we light the bonfire.’

Vespasian was exhausted by the time the twelfth hour of the night commenced but the loss of sleep had been more than compensated by a small collection of very revealing documents that both he and Caenis judged would be rash in the extreme to burn. He rolled up a scroll concerning the enormous bribe paid by the Vitellius brothers’ father, Lucius Vitellius the Elder, to have a treason charge dropped just before his death from paralysis three years before.

With a yawn he put it back in its crate. ‘I should go, my love; I need to freshen up before my clients arrive.’

Caenis looked up, with tired eyes, from a wax tablet. ‘Did you know that Narcissus planned to have you executed along with Sabinus if you failed to find the Eagle of the Seventeenth in Germania?’

‘Nothing surprises me. I can’t say that I’ll mourn Narcissus after he’s gone; he enjoyed using his power too much and made my life very difficult on a number of occasions.’ He leant over and kissed her on the mouth; they lingered a few moments before breaking apart. ‘I’ll see you later, my love, after Gaius and I have persuaded the Senate to seal the fate of the Julio-Claudian family.’

Vespasian and Gaius walked down the Quirinal in the thin light of a damp October dawn, two days before the Ides of that month, escorted by their clients; members of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood preceded them armed with staves ready to beat a way through the more crowded parts of the city.

‘The lads managed to regain control of the area,’ Magnus informed Vespasian. ‘Tigran told me that it didn’t take long; it’s hard for a brotherhood to hold two areas because the locals don’t believe that they would show enough respect for their crossroads lares and start to become obstreperous.’

Vespasian grunted in an attempt to sound interested in the doings of Rome’s underworld but his tired mind was busy with the speech he knew that he must soon deliver and with the order and purpose of all the other speeches as explained to him by Pallas the night before.

Magnus pressed on unperturbed. ‘But, strangely, this lot didn’t make any effort at all to secure their position. After a couple of days it wasn’t safe for them to walk around after dark and then it was just a question of a couple of well-chosen murders followed by an attack very similar to what they did to us and they were forced to fuck off back whence they came.’

‘Where did they come from?’ Gaius asked.

‘Now that’s the interesting thing. They weren’t from a neighbouring area like I originally assumed; they came all the way from the eastern end of the Aventine.’

Vespasian’s mood was not improved by the start of a steady drizzle of rain. ‘What’s so interesting about that apart from the fact that Sabinus lives over there?’

Magnus looked at Vespasian as if he were a slow but amiable child. ‘Because, sir, it confirms a possibility that we were contemplating. Why would a brotherhood from the far end of the Aventine bother to try to take over one on the other side of the city on the Quirinal? It don’t make any sense unless their objective wasn’t a takeover. As was pointed out at the time: why did they attack at the precise moment that the imperial secretary and the Junior Consul were having a secret meeting? So if you or Narcissus or both of you were the real targets, the East Aventine lads must have been put up to it.’

‘Of course they were put up to it; but by whom?’ Lack of sleep made Vespasian’s remark sound terser than he had meant it to be.

Magnus looked offended. ‘Just because you’ve been up all night, or should I say, up Caenis all night, there’s no need to be sharp with me.’

‘I’m sorry, Magnus.’

‘Yeah, well. Anyway, what you may not know is that since the Palatine became the exclusive abode of the élite there are no brotherhoods there in the modern sense of the concept because there aren’t people there who need our … er … help, if you take my meaning?’

‘No poor people to terrorise, you mean?’

‘Now that ain’t fair, sir. Anyway, the residents look after the crossroads lares themselves, so the nearest places to the Palatine where you would find a brotherhood in the very real sense of the word are the Via Sacra or … ’

‘The Aventine!’

‘Precisely, just the other side of the Circus Maximus. Now I ain’t saying that it was definitely someone on the Palatine who paid the East Aventine to do it, but I imagine that those lads have quite a close relationship with their betters living on the opposite hill, at least with the more unscrupulous of them, that is.’

‘Which would be most of them. I think you may well be right, old friend. So what are you going to do about it?’

Magnus chuckled. ‘Me? Nothing. I ain’t involved with the brotherhood no more. However, as you know, my mate Tigran is now the patronus and he does listen to the advice of those older and wiser than him.’

‘And what advice did you give him?’

‘I suggested that he might see if he could catch one of the Aventine lads and persuade him to answer a few questions.’

‘That’s very good advice.’

‘I thought so too and, talking of good advice, Lucius is back there.’ Magnus indicated to the crowd of clients following them down the hill. ‘As you didn’t have a salutio this morning he hasn’t had the chance to tell you that Eusebius will send someone to inspect the Arabs today and would be honoured to have a meeting with you to discuss them; Lucius wants to know when and where.’

Vespasian thought for a few moments as the Curia came into view with scores of senators swarming up its steps, leaving crowds of clients milling around waiting for news of proceedings within. ‘Tell him I’ll come out to the Greens’ stables tomorrow; I want to make sure that they’re good enough for the team.’

Magnus rolled his eyes. ‘The Greens’ stables not good enough? As if!’

The rumble of agitated voices filled the Curia as the Senate awaited the arrival of the Junior Consul to call the meeting to order. Rumour and counter-rumour circulated on a tide of apprehension as those who had been present when Claudius had collapsed informed others of the circumstances. Confirmation of his death had not been given and all were afraid to react one way or another for fear of insulting Claudius if he still lived by talking of the succession or insulting his successor by expressing a hope that he was indeed still alive. It was therefore with great relief to all that the Consul arrived, stilling conversation, and began the process of deciding whether the day was auspicious for the business of Rome, which, two goose livers later, it was pronounced so.

Vespasian carried on running over his speech in his head as prayers of thanks to Jupiter Optimus Maximus were said and the sacrifices were cleared away.

‘Servius Sulpicius Galba,’ Marcus Asinius Marcellus said, once he was seated in his curule chair, ‘for what reason have you summoned the Senate on a day that we were not due to sit?’

Galba rose to his feet, bald, muscular and sinewy; his eyes glared around him, his jaw jutted forward and he held himself rigid as if he was about to address troops who had severely displeased him. ‘Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus,’ he bellowed, causing those around him to wince, ‘died in the early hours of this morning.’ With that he sat back down as if he had just announced the name and position of the most junior of magistrates for the upcoming year.

Uproar was instantaneous as all vied to be loudest in their grief for the departed Emperor. Vespasian, prepared for this moment, strode to the centre of the floor and demanded the presiding Consul’s attention.

Marcellus stood, arms outstretched, roaring for silence, which was slow to come, but eventually the senators settled with all eyes on Vespasian standing in their midst. ‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus,’ Marcellus said, his voice rough edged from yelling, ‘has the floor.’

Vespasian composed his face into the most sombre of expressions. ‘Conscript Fathers, I mourn with you.’ He looked around, catching the eye of many in his audience so that they could see just how deeply he felt. ‘But the time for grief must be postponed for the good of Rome. Rome must have someone to lead her in her mourning. Before we succumb to the deep sorrow that we all feel let us first do our duty to Rome as her responsible Senate.

‘Let us remember the indecision and inaction with which we, to our shame, marked the passing of the last Emperor; our prevarication caused the Guard to nominate Claudius, not this ancient House.’ He turned full circle, gesturing with one hand to take in the entirety of the Senate. ‘We were all of us to blame. Let us on this occasion, Conscript Fathers, reassert our authority with a decisive act; a course of action that none here can deem wrong as it was clearly stated to be the will of the late Emperor, just three days ago in this very House. Let us call upon the Emperor’s son, who, in accordance with Claudius’ wishes expressed in here, remains his heir.’ Vespasian paused, contemplating the consequences of his next line for Titus’ friend. ‘Britannicus has not yet come of age! Let us therefore call upon Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus to come to this House at his earliest convenience. Here, Conscript Fathers, we shall ask him, no, beg him, to take up the Purple so sadly lain down by his father. If we can persuade Nero to shoulder the onerous burden of power, then, Conscript Fathers, we would have done our duty. Then, and only then, would we be free to mourn!’

Vespasian walked to his stool amidst thunderous applause as Gaius waddled out into the centre of the House, the nervous sweat lining his top lip betraying his unease at being so conspicuous.

Again Marcellus called for silence and when it was manifest he gave the floor to Gaius. ‘Conscript Fathers, my nephew has displayed two of the qualities that have made us Romans great. Unselfish dedication to duty and the ability to suppress deeply felt emotion in order to best serve the Senate and the People of Rome. I second his motion but I would add one more line to it: that, should Nero be gracious enough to grant our pleas, then we should thank him by voting him all the honours and titles that we voted Claudius throughout his reign so that he should begin his rule in no less dignity than his father’s ended.’ With a dramatic flourish of his right arm above his head, Gaius moved back to his seat next to Vespasian as applause came from every senator, each, no doubt, wishing that they had been the first to have moved such a sycophantic motion.

‘That seems to have got them going, dear boy,’ Gaius observed as he sat down with a flurry of hands patting his back and shouts of agreement in his ears.

‘We were only doing our duty,’ Vespasian replied, just managing to keep a sombre countenance.

They sat, with the rest of the Senate, nodding, murmuring, applauding or shouting in agreement where appropriate as, first, the two Vitellius brothers extolled Nero’s many virtues and the likelihood of him ushering in a golden age, and then Gaius Licinius Mucianus expounded at length on the necessity of coming to a decision very quickly. He was followed by Lucius Junius Paetus who begged Marcellus, with great rhetorical eloquence, to call an immediate vote; but before the Consul could do so, Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus took to the floor.

‘Conscript Fathers,’ Corvinus declaimed once he had received permission to address the House, ‘should we come to an agreement on this matter I would suggest that we contemplate how we carry our request to Nero. We can’t send too many delegates to the Palatine otherwise there would not be enough of our body here to welcome Nero when he arrives.’ Corvinus paused for a few moments as the senators reflected on the difficulty of getting the balance right. ‘I propose, therefore, that we remove these problems by sending only one man. Naturally the obvious choice to go should be the Junior Consul, who in the absence of his colleague is the most senior magistrate here. But then, Conscript Fathers, should not the most senior magistrate be waiting here at the bottom of the steps to greet Nero and escort him in?’ There were murmurings of agreement and worried mutterings that it was vital for the Senate to start off with a favourable relationship with the man they planned to make emperor.

‘Pallas said that he was meant to be nominating Marcellus to go, not blocking him,’ Vespasian hissed out of the corner of his mouth. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Building up his part, is my guess,’ Gaius muttered back. ‘He hasn’t had any preferment since you had Pallas save his life after Messalina’s death; Agrippina still can’t forgive him for being the harpy’s brother.’

‘Ah! But if he comes with the request from the Senate she might; is that it?’

‘Something like that.’

Corvinus opened his arms to the House. ‘So whom should we choose, Conscript Fathers?’

As Corvinus shamelessly beseeched the House, Vespasian regarded his old enemy, recounting the wrongs that he had done to him and his family; and then, as the senators began to call on Corvinus to deign to accept the task, one detail, one small memory of what Sabinus had told him about Corvinus, years ago, caught his attention. ‘Quick, Uncle; nominate me.’

Gaius looked at him, surprised.

‘Now!’

With a shrug, Gaius got to his feet. ‘Consul!’

‘Gaius Vespasius Pollo has the floor.’

Gaius waddled out into the middle as Corvinus glared at him. ‘Senator Corvinus has made an excellent point and we should be grateful to him for his perception. However, I do not judge him to be quite the right man for the job. I believe that we have one amongst us who would be ideally suited to such a task. A man who is, unlike Corvinus, of consular rank; but more than that: a man who has not been present in the city for almost three years and so therefore can be said to be removed from all the arguments and politics that have dominated the issue of the succession recently. I propose Titus Flavius Vespasianus.’

As the proposal was seconded by Paetus and a vote was called and passed, almost unanimously, Vespasian felt Corvinus’ eyes boring into him and the malice that they conveyed; he was, most certainly, breaking his oath to conduct himself as a dead man in Vespasian’s presence. However, that did not surprise him as, if he had guessed correctly, it was not the first time that Corvinus had broken that oath.