Rome's lost son

CHAPTER XX

Nero leant on Otho’s arm, trying to draw breath; he threw his head back, his sunset locks flowing with the motion, as he pinched his temples with the thumb and ring-finger of one hand. Eventually he inhaled, gasping, and Vespasian wondered how much longer the Prince of the Youth would be able to keep up this show of overwhelmed surprise.

Vespasian glanced around the atrium of the Praetorian prefect’s quarters in the Guard’s camp, outside the Viminal Gate. Agrippina, Pallas, Seneca and Burrus waited patiently as if such a ghastly display of overacting, which would put even the most melodramatic actor to shame, was a normal way to react to something totally expected; however, none of them would meet Vespasian’s eye.

‘I must compose my speech.’ Nero’s voice, husky at the best of times, was gravelled with emotion.

Seneca stepped forward and pulled a scroll from the fold of his toga. ‘Princeps, you already have.’

Both Nero’s hands came up, his thumbs touching the tips of his middle fingers, delight now upon his face. ‘Ah! So I have.’

Seneca handed the document over. ‘I’m sure it’s a masterwork, Princeps.’

‘It is, it is,’ Nero affirmed as he read through it.

‘Your skill with words is unsurpassed.’

‘Apart from musical talent; and if I were to put the two together …’ Nero looked up to the ceiling, his eyes wistful, and then returned his attention to the scroll.

All stood in silence as Nero finished perusing the speech. ‘I shall answer the Senate’s call and come at once, Senator Vespasian.’

‘You honour us, Princeps.’

‘But what to wear? What to wear, Mother?’

Agrippina smiled at her son, reaching out and stroking the ginger down on his cheeks. ‘Your steward has a selection of suitable attire ready for your inspection in your rooms.’

‘Mother, you think of everything.’ Nero kissed her on the lips and then grabbed Otho’s arm again. ‘Come, Otho, you shall help me decide; I mustn’t keep the Senate waiting.’

Vespasian watched the chosen Emperor almost skip from the room and wondered just for how long his antics would be tolerated; but he surmised that the innate sycophancy of the senatorial and equestrian classes would mean that his behaviour would have to deteriorate to the levels of Caligula before the whisperings would start. He then got a taste of what was to come as Agrippina turned to Burrus and, with a cold smile on her lips and malice in her dark eyes said, in almost a purr, ‘Send a turma of Praetorian cavalry to bring Narcissus back to Rome.’ As Burrus saluted and turned to go she added, ‘And remove Callistus from his position as secretary to the Law Courts; on a permanent basis.’

The killing was about to begin.

Four hours later, after Vespasian had sent repeated messages back to the Senate assuring them that Nero was coming once he had finished changing, the senators rose to their feet and applauded the Golden Prince after he had, with great verbosity and many shows of reluctance, accepted their pleas. Tears of gratitude were evident in many an eye in imitation of the tears rolling down Nero’s cheeks, as he slowly rotated with both hands pressed to his heart so all understood just how acutely he felt the emotion. Resplendent in golden slippers, a purple tunic embroidered with gold thread, a wreath of laurels worked from thin foil of the same metal and bracelets studded with all manner of precious jewels, Nero showed his modesty by sporting a plain white citizen’s toga. Of his humility all could be certain as Nero approached the Consul and, kneeling before him, pleaded to be allowed to address the Senate once again.

Fighting against a look of bemusement that kept on flickering over his face, Marcellus gave the floor to the new Emperor. Nero drew himself up to his full height, which was average, and passed his pale blue eyes over his audience, before arranging himself into the classic orator’s pose with his left arm across his midriff, supporting the folds of his toga, and his right down by his side, his hand clutching a scroll. Once he was happy with his stance, he heaved a couple of sobs and then cleared his throat of the heavy emotion before launching into a speech that within a few paragraphs had surprised everyone by its fair-mindedness and conservatism. All could see it bore no resemblance to his character and yet none wanted to disbelieve what they were hearing.

Nero affirmed the authority of the Senate, hoped for the consensus of the military, avowed that he had no animosities, brought with him no wrongs to be righted nor any desire for revenge and promised that he would not be the judge of all law cases and, also, that there would be no bribery within his household. As Nero talked on into the afternoon, Vespasian’s mind turned to his revenge. He scanned the lines of senators, each looking as if the weak, husky voice addressing them was the most beautiful sound in creation, and soon found the object of his hatred. Paelignus again almost jumped from his stool as he felt Vespasian’s gaze upon him and then turned into the full venom of his stare. As Nero worked himself up to a rhetorical climax, referring often to his scroll, Vespasian bathed in the thought of Paelignus’ humiliation and then death until, having peaked with the announcement that after Claudius’ funeral the following day he would meet with the Armenian delegation waiting in the city and, in one move, restabilise the Roman East, the Senate rose and cheered the Golden Prince who was now their Emperor.

The Junior Consul stood and motioned for silence. ‘Princeps, we have all been moved by your words that have so finely expressed the principles of just governance. I would propose that we should have your speech inscribed on silver tablets to be read out every time new consuls come into office as an example to all. What does the House say?’

With a unanimous cheer, accepting this inspirational way of honouring such a fine piece of rhetoric, the Senate hailed their Emperor. The cheering and applause went on and on as Nero graciously accepted it, again and again, with lavish hand gestures and expressions of modesty until, no doubt fearing for his dinner being ruined, the Junior Consul brought it to an end. ‘We look forward to taking our oaths to you tomorrow morning, after the funeral of your father. Until then we thank you for your time and will offer up prayers to all the gods of this city to hold their hands over you.’

Nero was too overcome to be able to reply; he walked with a quivering lower lip to the open doors of the Senate House. There, on the threshold, stood his mother, banned from entering the building because of her sex; Burrus stood behind her with a waiting guard of Praetorians. Nero threw himself into Agrippina’s arms and they embraced as if both were in rapturous joy.

‘What is the password of the day, Princeps?’ Burrus asked as the couple released one another.

‘The only password possible, Burrus,’ Nero replied, gazing at Agrippina. ‘Excellent mother.’

Burrus saluted and signalled to the guards to move aside as Nero walked forward to a thunderous ovation from the people of Rome, gathered in their thousands in the Forum. The Senate filed out behind Nero to share in the acclaim that the Golden Prince was receiving. Vespasian joined them, with Gaius, and watched the undeserved outpouring of love by the people, wondering for how long the words that Seneca had put in Nero’s mouth would stick there.

‘You shouldn’t have done that, bumpkin,’ a voice said in his ear.

Vespasian did not turn around. ‘I thought you were meant to be dead, Corvinus.’

‘I think that you noticing me alive in the Senate House this morning nullifies my oath.’

Vespasian still refused to look at Corvinus. ‘Seeing as you have miraculously come back from the dead, tell me, Corvinus, where are you living in this life? I seem to remember that in your last life you lived near my brother; that’s how you inveigled your way into his confidence and found out the whereabouts of Clementina so you could take her to Caligula. Are you still there?’

‘On the Aventine? Yes. What’s that-’

‘East Aventine?’

‘Yes.’

Vespasian spun round and fixed Corvinus with a look of naked hatred. ‘You haven’t been dead to me at all, have you, Corvinus? You tried to have me killed and make it look like I was a victim of a brotherhood takeover. After I had Pallas spare your life, I consider that to be extremely ungrateful behaviour.’

‘It’s a humiliation to be in the debt of a man as low-born as you.’

‘How did you know I’d be there in Magnus’ tavern at that time, Corvinus?’

Corvinus sneered, turned on his heel and walked away.

‘What was all that about, dear boy?’ Gaius asked, almost shouting over the growing tumult.

‘That, Uncle, was about a bastard who refuses to stay dead. I can see that he’s going to need a little help next time.’

It seemed to Vespasian that Nero would soon have the whole of Rome constantly shedding floods of tears as he watched the weeping Emperor, with Britannicus and Octavia Claudia following, bearing the casket containing Claudius’ ashes to Augustus’ mausoleum the following morning. Set on the bank of the Tiber on the north of the Campus Martius, the circular marbled building was capped with a conical roof that supported a statue of the great man who had commissioned it; it was the final resting place of all Rome’s Emperors and most members of their family. As Nero passed under the ring of cypress trees and then on through the gate guarded by two pink granite obelisks, Vespasian reflected that yet another member of the Julio-Claudians had failed to live out their natural life; even Augustus was rumoured to have been poisoned by his wife Livia so as to ensure that her son Tiberius inherited, and here was history repeating itself, although this time it had been a feather rather than a fig which had been the poisoned vessel.

The funeral party disappeared into the gloom of the interior and the people howled out their grief, not for Claudius’ demise, but for their new Emperor’s loss. They cared not for Britannicus nor for Octavia Claudia; they only had eyes for the dazzling Golden Emperor, as he now had become in their minds. They mourned with him now as they had mourned with him throughout the morning while he had eulogised Claudius from the podium next to his funeral pyre. Surrounded by actors wearing the funeral masks of the imperial family, he had praised Claudius for his scholarship, his extension of the Empire, his legal aptitude, all in the very vaguest of terms, careful that the words he used would not make it impossible to better each of Claudius’ achievements in short order. Claudius’ vices and afflictions had been forgotten, as had been his natural children, previous wives, powerful mother, Antonia, and grandmother, Livia. Nothing had been said that could overshadow or reflect badly on Nero and Agrippina. She sat to one side of the podium, on a dais, at the head of the women of Rome’s élite, Flavia and Caenis to the fore.

And the people had loved Nero; they had loved him because he made them do so by his seemingly open personality and his ability to express his emotions. But those who knew him and those who had seen him up close understood, like Vespasian did, that was just an act, a veneer.

And so, as the Senate and the people of Rome took their oath to the new Emperor, once he had emerged from the mausoleum with his duty to his predecessor done, those who appreciated the truth of the matter repeated the ritual formula with apprehension, wondering just what the false exterior concealed and hoping that, whatever it was, it would do them no harm. However, some, Vespasian included, had paid attention to what Nero’s natural father, Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus, had said upon being congratulated on the birth of his son: that a child of his and Agrippina would have a detestable nature and would be a public danger. It was with this knowledge and the firm belief that the Empire could not stand another Julio-Claudian who fitted that description that, once the ceremony had finished and Nero had been cheered off, Vespasian walked towards the Greens’ stables to meet Magnus and Lucius, smiling to himself and thinking of ways to keep safe during what would be, to say the least, an unpredictable reign.

‘Well, that seemed to go very well, I’d say,’ Magnus said as he, Lucius and Vespasian walked across the rectangular exercise yard, lined with stables and workshops, at the heart of the Greens’ stable complex. He looked with admiration at the horses being exercised, either singly or in teams of two, three or four. ‘Eusebius seems to be a very reasonable man.’

Vespasian found it hard to completely agree with that observation. ‘It’s a fairish price,’ he said grudgingly.

‘A fairish price? The Greens pay for the cost of five horses’ upkeep and training and you get to keep sixty per cent of their winnings; I’d say that is beyond fair, never mind fairish.’

‘I wanted seventy-five.’

‘You wanted ninety when you arrived here and, had me and Lucius not have explained that a figure like that would just make you look stupid, you would have been slung out on your arse as a time-waster; in the nicest possible way that a senator can be slung out on his arse, obviously.’

‘Obviously. But now the deal’s done I think I’m going to enjoy it.’

‘Then you had better make good your promise to Malichus,’ Magnus reminded him, ‘otherwise there’ll be nothing but bad luck following your team. It normally takes three or four months for a team to settle in so you should have it done by February; they won’t race before then.’ He clutched his right thumb between the fingers of his right hand and spat as a precaution against the evil-eye cursing the team that he hoped would make him a fortune on their first outing.

‘I’ll do it in the next few days while Pallas is pleased with me and Nero’s in a beneficent mood. But first I need to go to the Forum and watch our new Emperor try his hand at eastern diplomacy.’ Passing out through the stable’s gates he left Lucius a small token of his gratitude and, with Magnus, headed across the Campus Martius, past the Flammian Circus to the Porta Fontinalis, in the shadow of the Capitoline Hill, where the Via Flammia entered the city.

‘How dare you block my way!’

Vespasian instantly recognised the voice emanating from within a crowd obstructing the Porta Fontinalis.

‘I’ve been summoned by Agrippina to pay my respects to the new Emperor.’

Vespasian could not see Narcissus but his imperious voice, so used to command, was unmistakable.

‘And I’ve orders to detain you here, Narcissus, until the Praetorian prefect arrives.’

Vespasian assumed that was the voice of an Urban Cohort centurion in command of the gate’s watch as he pushed his way through the crowd to see what was occurring.

‘You should refer to me by my title of imperial secretary, centurion.’ Narcissus’ voice had dropped; a sign, Vespasian well knew, of deadly threat.

But the centurion was not intimidated. ‘My orders are to keep you here while I send a message to Prefect Burrus and, specifically, not to use your former title.’

Narcissus’ face registered a hint of fear as Vespasian succeeded in pushing through the crowd to get next to the freedman, seated in a one-man litter; his expression brightened somewhat upon seeing Vespasian. ‘You must help me through the gate, Vespasian.’ He indicated to the four Praetorian Guardsmen accompanying his litter, lounging in the sun against one of the tombs lining the Via Flammia and making no effort to progress through the gate. ‘My escort refuses to overrule this … this …’ He struggled to find a word to describe the centurion. ‘Underling.’

Vespasian sensed the rising panic in the once all-powerful freedman and, despite everything that Narcissus had done to Vespasian and his family during his time as imperial secretary, he felt a certain sympathy for his predicament. However, he knew that there was nothing that he could do to save the man without jeopardising his own safety. ‘Do you remember, Narcissus, after Caligula’s assassination when we were negotiating for my brother’s life?’

Narcissus frowned, surprised by the change of subject. ‘What of it?’

‘You asked me what a life was worth and I replied that it depends on who was buying and who was selling.’

‘Yes, and I said that market forces are always at work. What’s your point?’

‘I would have thought that was obvious: market forces have ceased in your case; you have no currency to buy with. Your life is worth nothing now, Narcissus.’

‘Not unless I try to buy it with information. My records; Caenis has got them, as I’m sure you know by now. You could try and negotiate with Pallas and Agrippina on my behalf, after you’ve removed anything concerning you and your family, obviously.’ Narcissus’ eyes gleamed with hope. ‘There’s enough information there to execute almost all the Senate and a lot of the equestrian class.’

Vespasian’s sympathy evaporated as the Greek contemplated buying his life with those of hundreds of others. ‘I thought you gave them into Caenis’ care to keep them from Pallas and Agrippina?’

‘I did, just so as I could use them at a time such as now. So you see, Vespasian, market forces are still at work. Will you help me?’

Vespasian thought about it for a few moments. ‘What do you have on Paelignus and Corvinus?’

Narcissus looked at him conspiratorially. ‘Ah, I see; a fair price. Not much on Corvinus but enough on Paelignus to see him dead. When his father died last year, he left half his estate to Claudius; a sensible precaution as you know. However, Paelignus falsified how much the estate was worth so that Claudius received less than a quarter of what he should have. It’s in my records.’

‘Good. I’ll extract that record before Caenis and I burn the rest.’

Narcissus blanched in terror. ‘Burn them? But what about me?’

‘Narcissus, do you think for one moment that I would be party to Agrippina having the hold of life and death over more than half of the men of importance in the city? It’s going to be bad enough without that over the next few years; I’ll not add to the murder. And you were wrong about her, by the way. It was Tryphaena behind the embassy, which was why Pallas knew nothing about it.’

‘How do you know that Pallas knew nothing?’

‘Because he was as curious as you were about what I found out in the East.’

‘You were working for him all along?’

‘I took the commission from both of you but I was working solely for myself; it just so happens that it was more to my advantage to share my findings upon my return with him than with you.’

‘You treacherous bastard!’

‘I learnt from the best, Narcissus.’

A loud voice cut through their exchange. ‘Tiberius Claudius Narcissus!’

Vespasian turned towards the direction of the shout to see Burrus stomping through the gate accompanied by a Praetorian centurion holding a sack. Narcissus recoiled as if he had been punched.

Burrus stopped in front of the litter. ‘Get out!’

‘I am a Roman citizen and have the right to appeal to Caesar.’

‘He knows that and he told me to tell you that you are more than welcome to exercise that right and he will be very happy to commute the sentence from decapitation to death by wild beasts; it’s up to you.’ Burrus drew his sword. ‘Centurion!’

The Praetorian centurion dipped his hand into the sack and pulled out a severed head by its ear.

‘Your erstwhile colleague decided not to exercise his right to appeal,’ Burrus informed Narcissus as he stared in horror at the bloodless face of Callistus. ‘If it’s any consolation, Nero did express regret at being able to write as he signed your death sentence.’

Narcissus stiffened; it was as if he had found a new strength in his helplessness. ‘So the most I can hope for is a clean death.’ He stepped out of the litter, calmly accepting his fate.

‘We’ll burn them thoroughly, Narcissus,’ Vespasian assured him.

‘You’re right; it will be for the best. If I were a betting man, my money would be on you to survive, Vespasian. And who knows to where a long life might lead.’ He walked forward and knelt before Burrus, extending his neck. ‘There is nothing else to say, my life is at an end.’

It was swift and clean. The sword caught the sun as it was raised and flashed when Burrus sliced it down. With a communal intake of breath from the crowd and a brief grunt from Narcissus, it cut though skin, flesh and bone, in a shock of blood, the edge so honed that Burrus’ arm hardly juddered as the blade swept Narcissus’ head from his shoulders to roll to the feet of the four Praetorians lounging against the tomb. The body stayed kneeling, rigid, for a few moments, disgorging its contents in great spurts as the heart pumped on, weakening with each contraction. The thigh muscles soon gave out and the husk of what had once been the most powerful man in the Empire slumped forward, dead at the entrance to the city that had given him, an ex-slave, his freedom, wealth, influence and, now, bloody execution.

‘Take him away!’ Burrus ordered the four Praetorians.

Vespasian stared at Narcissus’ face as his head was picked up; his eyes were still open. He remembered how the Greek had forced Sabinus to execute Clemens, his own brother-in-law, as part of the bargain that would spare his life; he smiled at the neatness of the retribution and then, as the head was carried away, his eyes rested on the tomb that had, up until now, been obscured by the Praetorians. He stared at it for a few moments and then broke into a laugh.

‘What the fuck are you finding so funny?’ Magnus asked.

Vespasian pointed at the tomb and read the inscription. ‘Valerius Messalla.’

‘So?’

‘Even from beyond the grave that harpy still gets her revenge on Narcissus for ordering her execution. Agrippina wouldn’t allow her to be buried in Augustus’ mausoleum so she was put in her family tomb. Narcissus was executed next to the last resting place of Messalina.’

Magnus blew through his teeth. ‘Sometimes you have to give the gods credit for their sense of humour.’

‘I suppose this is Pallas’ way of doing for Nero what he and Narcissus did for Claudius with the invasion of Britannia, dear boy,’ Gaius concluded as they watched the deputation from Armenia approach the raised tribunal in the Forum Romanum where the Emperor waited, seated on his curule chair, to give his first public judgement of his reign; Pallas, Seneca and Burrus all stood next to the tribunal ready to offer advice to their charge. ‘A proper invasion of Armenia, rather than the half-hearted ones we’ve had so far.’

‘It’s what Tryphaena planned,’ Vespasian agreed. ‘Except that I doubt that her nephew Radamistus has managed to cling on to power if Vologases has done what he intended.’

As the delegation of ten bearded and betrousered Armenians approached Nero, bearing rich gifts, there was a stirring in the crowd. From the opposite end of the Forum, surrounded by Vestal Virgins, came Agrippina. There was a gasp from all who could see her. Her hair was piled high upon her head and flashed and sparkled with jewels; her purple stola flowed down to her ankles and shimmered as if made of silk. But it was not these details that caused the shocked intake of breath: her palla was pure white, chalked white, and had a broad purple stripe, in imitation of a senatorial toga, and in her right hand she held a scroll as if she was about to give a speech. Behind her walked a slave with a curule chair.

‘She’s going to place herself next to the Emperor and receive the delegation as if she were a man,’ Vespasian said as the magnitude of Agrippina’s ambition became apparent.

‘Oh dear, dear boy, oh dear.’ Gaius’ jowls and chins wobbled in outrage at the thought of a woman being so forward. ‘That would be the end: women making decisions in public; unthinkable.’

Seneca and Burrus evidently held the same opinion; they called up advice to Nero as Agrippina came nearer and nearer. Pallas then joined the two advisors, giving what appeared to be a contrary opinion and, after what seemed to be a short but heated debate, he was rebuffed by the Emperor, who rose from his seat and inclined his head to Seneca and Burrus.

As Agrippina approached the tribunal, Nero descended the few steps and met her at the bottom. ‘Mother! How good of you to come and support me.’ He embraced and kissed her, making a great show of filial affection to warm the hearts of the crowd. ‘Over here would be the best place for you to watch from.’ He held her elbow in a firm grip and steered her away from the steps as Seneca indicated to the slave with the chair to place it down by him, next to the tribunal. Agrippina, with a fixed smile on her face, allowed herself to be seated with much courtesy by Burrus as Pallas stepped back, disassociating himself from the struggle for precedence. Agrippina’s eyes flashed first at her son, as he remounted the tribunal, and then at Seneca and Burrus.

‘I think Agrippina has just declared war on her son and his two advisors,’ Vespasian observed to his uncle.

‘I saw the look too, dear boy, and that’s a struggle that a woman cannot win; not even that one. I think Pallas’ days are numbered.’

Vespasian nodded slowly. ‘Yes, it really is Seneca’s time now.’

‘I’m pleased that we have finally got the chance to meet,’ a voice said as Vespasian contemplated the best way to approach Seneca.

He turned and saw a huge man now standing next to him. ‘Caratacus!’

‘I have not presumed to invite you for dinner, Titus Flavius Vespasianus, being ranked only as a mere praetor and you of consular rank.’

Vespasian took his old adversary’s proffered arm and grasped it firmly; it was as if he was clutching an oak branch. ‘I must apologise to you, Tiberius Claudius Caratacus, for neglecting to pay my respects but as I’m sure you’re aware …’

‘You have only been back for a few days and they have been eventful. It’s a sad time for us all.’

Vespasian was surprised by the statement; he could not tell whether Caratacus was referring to Claudius’ death or Nero’s ascension and decided not to respond one way or the other. ‘I’m sure we have much to talk about concerning the conquest of Britannia.’

‘A conquest that is far from over.’

‘So I believe; it should make for an interesting dinner conversation.’ Nero got to his feet to officially welcome the Armenians; Vespasian lowered his voice. ‘I shall be making a tour of mine and my brother’s estates soon. I should be back after the Saturnalia at the end of December, we shall dine then.’

Caratacus inclined his head. ‘It’ll be my pleasure, Vespasian,’ he said before disappearing back into the crowd.

The speeches had been long and formal and the people’s interest had waned as the sun had fallen and the crowds had thinned out to the point that it had become noticeable. With an eye to the possibility of completely losing his audience, Nero interrupted the latest in the line of Armenian delegates in the middle of an impassioned speech about his country’s love of Rome and Rome’s new Emperor and hatred for all things Parthian, which, considering his eastern attire, was raising more than a few eyebrows.

As soon as it was clear that Nero was about to speak the background chatter that the Armenian delegates had been forced to fight against immediately died down. The Golden Emperor got to his feet and graciously indicated to the Armenians to rise from their bellies, from which position they had voluntarily made their cases. For quite a while Nero made a great show of contemplating everything he had heard, scratching his downy beard, rubbing the back of his neck with a pained expression on his face and then gazing into the middle distance over the heads of his adoring audience, seeking inspiration from afar.

‘I have made my decision,’ he eventually announced. ‘This golden age shall have peace and I shall soon be able to close the doors of the Temple of Janus. But before that happens we shall have war!’ He stood with one hand in the air and the other on his hip, the soldierly image of a general addressing his troops, and the crowd roared their approval. He silenced them with a swipe of his raised hand. ‘I shall prosecute this war in a firm and positive way and not in the haphazard, half-hearted manner of my father, who despite his many qualities could not be considered martial.’ As the crowd cheered their agreement to this point Nero signalled to Burrus to hand him up his sword. Nero held it aloft. ‘I will give Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo, our most competent general in the East, full powers to resolve the Armenian question and beat the Parthians back to their homeland. He shall report only to me and shall have the benefit of my advice.

‘And so I shall deal with our external problems, safeguarding the sanctity of Rome’s borders; but whilst doing this I shall also address an internal infestation: I have been told that there were a few, this morning, who refused to take their oath to me, your Emperor. These people, I have been informed by Lucius Annaeus Seneca, do not acknowledge me as the supreme authority in the Empire but, rather, some crucified criminal called Chrestus. Find them for me, people of Rome; root them out and bring them to me for judgement and sentence. Together, my people, together we shall fight our enemies within as well as without and together we shall be victorious.’

Vespasian looked at Gaius as the people screamed their love for their Golden Emperor; he smiled. ‘Now he’s united them with common enemies both here and abroad, Uncle. He’ll secure his position and then we shall see how he handles absolute power.’

‘I’m sure we will, dear boy; let us pray to the gods of our houses that we don’t get to see too closely.’

‘I’ve found it!’ Caenis said, handing an unrolled scroll across the garden table to Vespasian. ‘It’s all there: the clause, the amount of the bequest and then the original valuation of Paelignus’ father’s estate as registered in the will at the House of the Vestals. It specifies its actual size in terms of land, goods, chattels and cash. Narcissus must have had this stolen.’

‘Or paid the Vestals for it.’ Vespasian read through the scroll, smoke from the bonfire occasionally wisping into his eyes. ‘But this doesn’t tell us how much was paid to the imperial treasury.’

‘It doesn’t need to. All bequests made are logged and filed at the treasury; you just have to get Pallas to cross-check what was received from Paelignus against what’s in that record.’

Vespasian looked at the valuations, did some mental arithmetic and then whistled. ‘I make the total value about twenty million denarii, which means that Claudius should have got ten but only received a quarter of that. Paelignus swindled the Emperor out of seven and a half million. That’ll do nicely.’ He slapped the scroll down on the table.

Caenis pointed to the rest of Narcissus’ records that they still had not read through. ‘Do you want to carry on looking through?’

Vespasian glanced at them and then across at the bonfire consuming the rest. ‘Burn them, my love. I’ve got what I need on Paelignus and we’ve got a few other useful things too. If we keep too much, it might become apparent to somebody just exactly what Narcissus did with his records.’

Caenis signalled to her steward to carry on feeding the fire. ‘How are you going to explain to Pallas how you come to have an original valuation that had been lodged with the Vestals?’

‘I won’t; and I also won’t be giving it to Pallas, as it would seem to me that his time is coming to an end. I’ll use this to buy favour with Seneca. For this he’ll be more than happy to get Nero to grant Malichus his citizenship and then, I imagine, he’ll come to an arrangement with Paelignus that he pays the balance of what he owes to him in return for his silence on the matter.’

‘I thought you wanted him dead.’

‘I do, but it might be amusing to ruin him first; see how he likes a couple of years with nothing, just as I had.’ He got to his feet, smiling at the thought. ‘Have your people pack your bags, my love; we’ll leave for my Cosa estate tomorrow after I’ve seen Seneca.’