Rome's lost son

CHAPTER XXI

‘I got back to Rome just before the Ides of October,’ Vespasian said without any preamble as Hormus showed Laelius into the tablinum, ‘and here we are two days before the Ides of February. Why has it taken four months for you to come and pay your respects to me, Laelius?’

Laelius stood before the desk, looking uncomfortable and sweating slightly despite the chill of a February dawn. He rubbed his hand over his now completely bald pate and essayed an ingratiating smile. ‘I have only just heard of your return, patronus, as I’ve been away on business.’ He spread his hands and shrugged as if it were unavoidable.

‘For four months over the winter, Laelius? Bollocks! You’ve been in the city and I know it.’

‘But you were touring your estates.’

‘Ah! In order to know that you must have been here. Anyway, I got back from my tour in the New Year. I’ll tell you why it’s taken four months to visit me: it’s because, with the bad winter they’ve been having in Moesia, it’s taken four months for my letter to get to my brother and then for the news to get back to you that he’s cancelled your chickpea contract and dismissed your son in disgrace. Is that nearer the mark, Laelius?’

Laelius cringed and twisted his hands.

‘And all the time that I was away you didn’t pay me the twelve per cent that you promised me from your business even though I kept my part of the bargain and had your equestrian status restored and got your son a post as a military tribune.’

Laelius hung his head. ‘I’m sorry, patronus; I believed you to be dead. I’ll pay you everything I owe and raise your percentage to fifteen if you can have your brother restore the contract to me.’

Vespasian turned to Hormus. ‘Is Magnus still here?’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Ask him to come and join us.’

As Hormus left the room Vespasian gave Laelius a friendlier smile. ‘It’s not the contract or the money that you owe me that I wish to discuss at the moment.’

‘What do you want, patronus?’

‘How many people do you call patronus, Laelius?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t you?’ Vespasian mused as Hormus came back in with Magnus. ‘Magnus, Laelius is having trouble understanding me; would you help him to focus his attention?’

‘My pleasure, sir.’ Magnus grabbed Laelius’ right arm and pulled it high behind his back.

‘Have I got your full attention now, Laelius?’

Magnus forced the arm up a bit more and Laelius nodded vigorously, grimacing with pain.

‘Good. Now, the last time I saw you I granted you a favour, did I not?’

Another vigorous nod.

‘And yet once that favour was done you took the earliest opportunity to cultivate a new patron. What was his name, Laelius?’ Vespasian raised his eyebrows at Magnus who applied even more pressure.

‘Corvinus!’

‘Corvinus,’ Vespasian repeated in a reasonable tone; he was enjoying this. ‘And for how long have your been courting Corvinus?’

‘I don’t understand, patronus!’

Vespasian’s eyes hardened and he pointed at Laelius’ shoulder. Magnus grabbed it and twisted Laelius’ arm further up his back; there was a loud tearing sound and a pop. Laelius screamed.

‘Would you like Magnus to dislocate the other one for you?’ Vespasian asked pleasantly. ‘And he will, if you don’t tell me just for how long you’ve been in Corvinus’ pay.’

‘Five years, patronus.’

‘I think that we can drop the pretence of you calling me patronus, don’t you? Now, the last time you left this room someone came in for an interview straight after you: do you remember him?’

Laelius whimpered, holding his damaged shoulder. ‘No, patronus.’

‘The other one, Magnus, now!’

Magnus reacted in a flash and within moments Laelius had fallen screaming to his knees with both arms hanging useless at his side.

‘It’s the elbows next, Laelius. Do you remember who came in after you?’

‘Yes, but I don’t remember his name.’

‘Agarpetus; he was Narcissus’ freedman here to organise a meeting between me and his patron. And you listened at the curtain, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Laelius sobbed.

Magnus’ expression changed as he understood the implication; murder shone in his one good eye.

Vespasian held up a hand to stop his friend. ‘What did you do with what you heard, Laelius?’

‘I told Corvinus.’

‘Told Corvinus? Now why would you do that?’

Laelius looked up at Vespasian, his eyes pleading for his life. ‘Because he paid me to tell him anything interesting that I heard while I was in your house.’

‘Do you know what he did with this information?’

Laelius shook his head.

‘Tell him, Magnus.’

‘He had the East Aventine Brotherhood attack the South Quirinal Brotherhood.’

‘That’s exactly what he did,’ Vespasian agreed. ‘In an effort to have me killed; but, instead, quite a few of Magnus’ brothers lost their lives. I imagine the South Quirinal would like to see justice done.’

‘Very much so; but they wouldn’t be anxious to see justice done quickly, if you take my meaning?’

‘Oh, but I do, Magnus, I do.’ Vespasian was now enjoying this even more than he had anticipated he would when he had made the connection between Corvinus knowing when he would be in Magnus’ tavern and Laelius. That had been over a month before and since then he had been savouring the prospect of Laelius coming to plead for his chickpea contract. ‘But you are no longer a member of that brotherhood so it’s not really your argument any more. We wouldn’t want murder committed for no reason, would we, Laelius?’

A flicker of hope showed in Laelius’ eyes. ‘No, patronus.’

‘So when will be the next time you see your former brethren, Magnus?’

‘In the Circus Maximus in an hour or so to watch your team race for the Greens for the first time.’

‘Now that is convenient. Laelius lives in Red Horse Street just off the Alta Semita.’

‘I know it well, sir, so do Tigran and the lads.’

‘And once you’ve told Tigran and the lads that Laelius was responsible for the deaths of a few of their brethren and their temporary eviction from their tavern, how long do you think it would take them to find Laelius’ house?’

‘My guess is that for the pleasure of revenge for something like that they would forgo the racing and be there within a half-hour.’

Vespasian made a show of doing some arithmetic. ‘I would say that you’ve got precisely an hour and a half to get out of Rome, Laelius. Goodbye.’

Laelius looked wide-eyed at Vespasian and then realised that he was indeed letting him go. He stood, grimacing at the pain in his shoulders, and then ran from the room with his arms flapping uselessly beside him.

‘Follow him, Hormus, and don’t let anyone open the door for him; let him try and work that out for himself.’

‘Are you really going to give him a chance, sir?’

Vespasian shrugged. ‘Do you think that the lads won’t get him?’

‘Of course they’ll get him, even if he runs to Corvinus.’

‘Well, then, after what he did, he deserves to live his last few hours, or days, in terror of the inevitable.’

‘What do you want to do about Corvinus? I could get the lads to torch his house for him.’

Vespasian contemplated the offer briefly. ‘No, but thank you, Magnus, it was a kind offer; he’s so rich that it would hardly inconvenience him at all. I’ll think of something suitable in due course.’

Magnus grinned. ‘I’m sure you will. In which case, I think it’s time we went to the circus, sir.’

‘So do I, Magnus; and now that Seneca has persuaded Nero to grant Malichus his citizenship I think the gods will look kindly on my team. I’ve a feeling that this is our lucky day.’

Magnus grinned. ‘I believe you may be right; after all, it’s already started off so pleasantly.’

The sight of Caratacus being admitted to the imperial box reminded Vespasian that he wanted to share, over dinner, their reminiscences of four years of fighting each other. But as the Britannic chieftain was greeted by Nero, who was enthusing about the scale model of the Circus Maximus and comparing its details to the real structure surrounding them, Vespasian returned to his inner battle and looked down at the purse in his hand, struggling with himself and his inability to part easily with money.

‘I’ve put ten aurii on them, dear boy,’ Gaius, sitting to his right, informed him, holding up the wooden bet marker that he had just received from the bookmaker’s slave with whom he had placed the bet.

Vespasian was appalled. ‘That’s five times the annual salary of a legionary, Uncle. What if they lose?’

‘Then I shall blame you because they’re your horses. But if I win, then I’ll get eight times my bet because no one fancies the Greens’ third chariot with a team that has never raced before.’

Vespasian looked back down at his purse and weighed it in his hand. Despite the fact that he had driven his team himself a few times in the Flammian Circus and was well aware of their prowess, he was still finding it very hard to lay his first ever bet.

Flavia, seated to his left, snorted in derision. ‘You’ll have as much chance of getting him to place a bet on his own horses, Gaius, as you would of getting him to pay for your upkeep if you made the mistake of marrying him without a dowry. Fortunately I didn’t make that error.’ She smiled in a goading manner and brandished her bet marker. ‘Fifteen denarii of my money on your horses, dear husband.’

Vespasian was taken by just how much his wife was becoming like his mother; given another few years, he surmised, she would stand a good chance of being just as cantankerous. He felt relief that he had forbidden Vespasia Polla to accompany him and Flavia back to Rome, after they had visited her in Aquae Cutillae for the Saturnalia, ostensibly on account of her frailty and the cold; in reality it was because of their souring natures rubbing each other. Dealing with two such women on a daily basis had been intolerable; whereas the month that he had spent with Caenis at Cosa had been very tolerable indeed.

Titus leant over his mother and rubbed Vespasian’s arm, bringing him back to his present dilemma. ‘Come on, Father, it’s just a bit of fun; I’ve put down five denarii.’

‘Five! Where did you get that from?’

‘It’s part of my allowance.’ Titus cocked an eyebrow before adding, ‘Quite a large part seeing as you’re the one who sets the level of it.’

Vespasian did not take offence at his son’s remark; he knew that, although it was an exaggeration, there was more than a grain of truth in it. He sighed, pulled a coin out of his purse and handed it to the waiting bookmaker’s slave. ‘One sesterces on the Green number three chariot. What will I get if I win?’

‘Two denarii plus your original stake, master,’ the slave replied, taking the bronze coin. With great ceremony he placed it in his bag before recording the wager in his ledger and then handing the numbered marker to Vespasian.

As the slave walked off to report back to his master, based with the other bookmakers at the rear of the senators’ enclosure, Titus handed him a silver denarius. ‘That’s for managing to keep a straight face.’

Vespasian punched the air and screamed incoherently as the leading three chariots skidded, in clouds of dust, out of the turn into the last of the seven laps, almost level. Only the Red supporters in the circus remained seated as their three chariots lay in mangled wrecks scattered around the track. The Blues, Whites and Greens, however, had jumped to their feet to urge on their teams for the last desperate effort. But those who were yelling the loudest were the people who had put their money on the outsider: the unknown Green team. The team had caused a stir around the circus during the parade before the race; supporters of all factions had marvelled at the quality of the Arabs. Even the Emperor, who was no mean judge of horse-flesh, had been impressed and had interrupted showing off his new set of finely carved ivory chariot models to Caratacus, seated with him, and summoned Eusebius, the Green faction-master, to the imperial box. Vespasian had felt Nero’s eyes rest upon him a couple of times as they discussed the team.

But now Vespasian was lost in the excitement of the race as the three leading chariots shot down the straight on the other side of the spina to the delirious roar of a quarter of a million people. The hortatores, the single horsemen who guided each chariot through the dust, wreckage and chaos of the race, reached the turning post at the far end of the spina for the last time and, signalling frantically at a party of track slaves, trying to rescue a trapped Red charioteer from his shattered vehicle, to take shelter within the tangle of wood and thrashing horses, made the turn and then pulled aside to leave the final straight clear for the three remaining teams.

With the White on the inside, taking the slower but sharper turn, the Blue and the Green charioteers whipped their teams to speed them around the outside at the fastest possible pace, negating the White’s advantage of taking the shorter route. As the three chariots levelled out they were almost in a line and with no more turns to go it was all about fitness and pace. And as the roar of the Green supporters, seated mainly on the left-hand side of the great entrance gates, increased to storm-like proportions, it was obvious which team had the most of both those qualities; qualities that Vespasian knew very well from his amateur efforts with them.

But now they were in the hands of a professional.

With seeming effortlessness the four Arab greys lengthened their stride and almost glided away while the White and Blue drivers, their leather-strapped chests heaving with the exertion, slashed their four-lashed whips over the withers of their teams to no discernible effect. The Green supporters howled their joy as the seventh dolphin tilted and the Green charioteer raised an arm in a victory salute.

‘They weren’t even at full stretch by the end!’ Gaius yelled in Vespasian’s ear. ‘That could be the best team in Rome at the moment.’

Vespasian beamed at his uncle, his thoughts focused on all the prize money that was now a very real possibility as a Praetorian Guardsman pushed his way along the row to them. With a perfunctory salute he delivered his message: ‘The Emperor commands you and your son to join him for dinner after the last race.’ Without waiting for a reply the man moved off.

‘Oh dear, dear boy,’ Gaius said, the joy of winning slipping from his face. ‘I’ve a nasty feeling that I’m not the only one who thinks that.’

Vespasian looked over to Nero and had the suspicion that his uncle was right.

‘You must understand, Vespasian,’ Seneca said, coming straight to the point, as he met Vespasian and Titus in the palace’s atrium, ‘that to keep the Emperor … how should I say? Mollified? Yes, mollified, that’s the word, exactly right; to keep the Emperor mollified we need to give him what he wants.’ He placed an avuncular arm around Vespasian’s shoulders. ‘If he gets what he wants then we find him far more amenable to acting with reason and restraint.’

‘We?’ Vespasian asked pointedly as Seneca led him at speed through the once dignified chamber designed, by Augustus, to overawe visiting embassies with Rome’s majesty rather than ostentatiously show off its wealth as Nero had evidently decided to do. Hugely expensive works of art were now scattered about the room; not garish and brash as they had been in Caligula’s time but, rather, exquisite in their beauty and workmanship. There was, however, vulgarity in their abundance.

‘Yes, me and Burrus.’

‘What about Pallas?’

‘I’m afraid that your friend staked rather too much on Agrippina’s support; although, perhaps “support” is the wrong choice of word considering the entirety of what she gives him.’ He paused for a short chuckle, his eyes almost disappearing in his well-fleshed face; Vespasian checked himself from asking what support Agrippina still gave Nero. ‘But then I expect that you suspected as much as it was to me that you brought Malichus’ petition for citizenship.’

‘Indeed; and I put myself in your debt knowingly. I trust you have benefitted from the information that I supplied you with.’

‘Very much and you’ll be pleased to know that Paelignus is er … “financially debilitated” is the expression that best sums up his position.’ Seneca rumbled another chuckle and looked at Titus. ‘Learn from your father, young man, he’s got political — how should I put it? Ah, yes, that’s an excellent word: nous. Yes, political nous is exactly what he’s got.’ He slapped Vespasian on the shoulder and then gave it a friendly squeeze. ‘Now, I shall be candid with you, Vespasian.’

‘You want me to give the Emperor my team of horses.’

‘I didn’t say that. No, no, no, far from it; I didn’t say that at all.’

‘You said we have to give Nero what he wants.’

‘I did; but only if he asks. So if he asks, give him your team.’

‘And what will I get in return?’

‘Well, well, that’s a difficult question. That is … what’s the best word for what that is? Ah, yes: that is an imponderable. Yes, it is. It could be anything from nothing at all to your life itself. That’s how things work with Nero; there’s very little … er … middle ground — for want of a better expression. But, who knows, he may have forgotten all about your horses if the dinner is sumptuous, the lyre player talented and the conversation centres around him, which I shall do my best to see that it does.’

As they walked into the soft music and quiet chatter of the triclinium, Vespasian reconciled himself to losing his team and gaining nothing by it; why else was he there?

‘We will have to save our reminiscences for a more private occasion, Vespasian,’ Caratacus said, breaking off from a conversation with one of the dozen or so other guests and walking to greet Vespasian as he entered the room.

‘Now that I’m back we should make the arrangement.’ Vespasian indicated to Titus. ‘This is my son and namesake.’

Caratacus took Titus’ arm. ‘You would do well to follow your father.’

‘I intend to do better than that.’

Caratacus threw his head back and laughed. ‘That is the joy of sons. You have done well, Vespasian, to instil such ambition in the lad. But what victories could he achieve that are greater than yours?’

‘Rome will always be supplying the need for victories.’

‘As long as she keeps expanding, yes. But come, we shall drink together and I shall try to forget the fact that for my sons to do better than me all they need do is not lose what they already have.’

Vespasian was surprised to hear no bitterness in the Briton’s voice. He took a goblet of wine from the tray of a waiting slave and saw Pallas amongst the guests; the Greek walked over and Caratacus politely stepped aside.

‘I thought-’ Vespasian began before Pallas cut him off.

‘I know what you thought.’ Pallas’ face was, as usual, unreadable. ‘That’s why you cultivate Seneca. It is a wise if somewhat ungrateful move; especially after all I’ve done for you. But whether it will keep you safe from Agrippina or get you the governorship of a province I don’t know. Despite what Seneca and Burrus have done to poison Nero’s mind to his mother and also me, I’ve still managed to retain my post as chief secretary to the Treasury; but for how long I don’t know. I trust I will not lose your friendship for old times’ sake.’

A sudden drop in the conversation followed by applause prevented Vespasian from answering. Nero, surrounded by a colourful entourage, had entered the room followed by Agrippina and two maids; all present joined in a chorus of mighty shouts of ‘Hail Caesar!’.

Nero was overcome by his greeting and leant with one hand on the shoulder of a muscular-in-body but effeminate-in-face freedman, while languidly waving the other in acknowledgement. Tears again began to roll down his cheeks and Vespasian wondered if he really was so naturally emotional or had learnt to cry at will or, perhaps more likely, was skilled in the art of applying onion to the eyes.

‘My friends, my friends,’ Nero said, almost singing the words in his husky voice. ‘Enough; we are all friends here.’ He turned to his entourage. ‘Here, my darling boy.’

Britannicus, escorted by a brutish man in the uniform of the prefect of the Vigiles, came out of the crowd, evidently burning with shame and anger and unsurprisingly so: a blond wig in which blooms had been woven had been forced upon him; his eyes, cheeks and lips were heavily made up and the tunic he wore was of the finest linen but barely long enough for modesty.

Titus reacted as if punched and then made to move forward but was immediately restrained by both Vespasian and Pallas.

‘Stay, you fool,’ Pallas hissed.

‘Today is the eve of my darling brother’s fourteenth birthday so this evening is the last time he will be accorded the respect of a mere boy. It is a time to celebrate, a time to revel in the joys of boyhood for one last occasion before taking on the responsibilities of a man before he comes to feel the awful weight of responsibility that comes with the toga virilis.’ Nero put an arm around Britannicus’ shoulders. Vespasian felt as though a blow had landed on his belly before he had had time to tense his muscles: he had forgotten the significance of the date; this evening was nothing to do with his team. He glanced at Seneca but his eyes warned that they were powerless to interfere.

‘You are lucky, darling brother, in that as yet you do not have to make the onerous decisions that come with manhood.’ Nero turned his watery-blue eyes onto Pallas, and Vespasian saw the hardness and cruelty in them that lurked behind the veneer of emotion. ‘That man fucks Mother, did you know that, sweet boy?’

Pallas glanced involuntarily at his lover.

Agrippina went rigid, shock frozen on her face.

Everyone in the room held their breath.

‘He even fucks Mother after I’ve been fucking her and sometimes, I’ve noticed, he’s even fucked Mother before me. Do you fuck Mother too, Britannicus?’

Britannicus made no reply but just stared ahead shaking with rage.

‘I’m going to punish Pallas for fucking Mother.’

‘You will do no such thing!’ Agrippina shrieked, coming out of her shock. ‘You monster; how dare you turn on me and how dare you turn on Pallas now that we have got you to where you are?’ She flung herself across the room at her son only to be restrained by Burrus. ‘Let me go, you uncultured brute!’

Nero slapped her, fore- and backhand, around the face. ‘Quiet, Mother, you’re disturbing my fun.’

‘Fun!’ She tried to break free from Burrus’ grip but he held fast. ‘I thought you would be grateful but no, you’re no better than your father.’

‘And no worse than my mother. But at least I know what I am and have the goodness to hide it most of the time.’

Agrippina hissed and spat like a rabid cat, almost hyperventilating with wrath. ‘I’ll go to the Praetorian camp and I’ll admit murdering Claudius.’ She pointed at Britannicus. ‘They’ll put his runt on the throne and you’ll be finished.’

‘And you’ll be dead, Mother, if you do that. Besides’ — he ran his hand through the blond wig — ‘little Britannicus is still a boy and should be treated as such. Tigellinus! On the couch with him.’

The Vigiles prefect brought up the knife that had been keeping Britannicus in check and, putting it to his throat, forced the boy to kneel on a couch; his tunic rose over his buttocks and all could see that he wore no loincloth. Nero admired the revealed sight for a few moments and then licked his lips. ‘What a delicious boy. Doryphorus, see to me and then ready him.’

The muscled, effeminate freedman fell to his knees and with practised skill very quickly coaxed an erection from his patron. Nero gazed down at it with love. ‘Oh that it were not mine but belonged to another so that I could possess such beauty.’

Titus struggled but Vespasian held on to his son as Doryphorus licked Britannicus’ anus, moistening it, before Nero, with surprising tenderness, eased his way in to him; Britannicus made no sound.

All in the room not involved stood and watched the act, transfixed, their faces registering horror as Nero raped his stepbrother with growing rhythm and delight; the rightful heir to Augustus’ line pounded in public as if he were no more than a dockside whore-boy earning a sesterces. Tigellinus slathered as he held the boy down, staring into his face, and occasionally looking up at Nero and grinning maniacally with sadistic pleasure.

With no more than a grunt and a slight shudder, Nero came to a climax and then sighed deep with contentment. Pulling himself free of Britannicus and slapping a buttock at the same time, he looked around the room, beaming. ‘That’s how to treat a boy. Let’s eat.’

Nero licked his fingers and then looked at Pallas, frowning, as if recollecting a dim memory. ‘Of course! I was in the process of punishing you for fucking Mother.’ He took another quail from the platter before him and pulled a leg free. He turned to Seneca, reclining to his right on the couch. ‘You claim to have an eye for appropriate justice — what do you think his punishment should be?’

Seneca cleared his throat and wiped his lips to give himself a few moments’ thinking time. ‘Princeps, in our long hours of study together over the years I have tried to steer you on the path of justice rather than er … shall we say chaos? Yes, chaos will do admirably. We cannot have chaos, and chaos comes from injustice. Pallas here has served both you and your father well, for that he deserves reward. However, he has also, how should I put it? Compromised, that’s it, compromised himself with your mother, and for that he deserves punishment. So from those two conflicting outcomes how can we find justice?’

As Seneca expanded on his theme, Vespasian marvelled that Nero seemed to be listening enrapt rather than struggling to remain focused like the rest of Seneca’s audience. Only Pallas, next to him, remained fixed on the discourse as his life was weighed and fate decided. His face remained outwardly placid but the slightest rubbing of his index finger on his cup betrayed a deep anxiety in one normally so at ease.

Caratacus, to Vespasian’s other side, sipped his wine, paying no attention to the speech, while Titus and Britannicus both ate methodically and without enjoyment as if just marking time until the whole ordeal was over. Agrippina smouldered on Nero’s left, shooting venomous looks at the speaker.

‘And so, bearing in mind all of these arguments,’ Seneca carried on, drawing to a conclusion, ‘including the fact that it was Pallas himself who recommended Narcissus’ death in similar circumstances, I suggest, Princeps, that you show a degree of mercy; banish him, put him-’

‘I decide the sentence,’ Nero snapped, raising his finger in warning at Seneca. ‘If I agree with the argument.’ Now he went right back to the posing that had seemed to have been forgotten as he had allowed the innate violence within him to run free. After much imitation of a man deep in thought he resurfaced. ‘I shall be merciful, Pallas.’

Vespasian felt the Greek relax; his index finger stilled.

‘You are banished from Rome but may live on one of your estates close to the city. You may keep your wealth as a reward for your good service to my father but should I need money you will always lend it to me, interest free. However, as punishment for your crimes with my mother you shall play host to her for half of every month. In other words for half the year she shall not be with me, annoying me, but with you.’

Vespasian choked back an involuntary guffaw at the mad logic of the sentence as Pallas got to his feet.

‘Princeps, you are just and merciful and I submit to your will.’ With a bow to Nero while completely ignoring Agrippina, who was still staring at her son in horror, Pallas left the room, his career in Rome over.

Nero brightened as the Greek’s footsteps receded. ‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, celebrating my brother’s coming of age. We shall have a toast; charge our cups!’

Female slaves who had been waiting in the shadows busied themselves making sure that each of the guests had sufficient before retreating back whence they came.

‘To my brother’s birthday tomorrow!’ Nero shouted, before draining his wine.

All the guests followed his example with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Britannicus, his eyes glazed with remembrance of public buggery, took no more than a mouthful.

But that was enough to make Nero smile as the boy swallowed. ‘Which he will never see,’ he added, watching Britannicus intently.

Vespasian’s innards lurched and he looked at Britannicus who broke into a cold smile of acceptance as he threw another gulp down his gullet, his eyes fixed on Nero, defiance and hatred in them. Behind him a slave woman was staring with the same intensity as she had stared at Claudius while he died; the woman was rewarded by a sudden spasm. Titus grabbed Britannicus’ cup from his hand as the spasm repeated, confused by what was happening to his friend who now struggled but failed to draw breath; a rattle emanated from his constricted throat. Titus gaped at him, his face tensed in horror as realisation dawned. Five, ten, fifteen heartbeats the ghastly agony continued as Britannicus’ eyes bulged and his lips blued, twitching as they struggled to form a word; his hand grasped Titus’ wrist and pushed the poisoned cup up towards his mouth. His lips resolved into a final, twisted smile.

Once more for Vespasian, time’s chariot slowed and he felt himself rising as he watched Britannicus slump slowly back, his hand releasing its grip. His heart pounded slow and bass in his ears as Titus stared at the contents of the cup, registering just what it was; he looked down at his friend’s lifeless eyes, fixed upon him, before casting Nero a glare of unvarnished loathing. Vespasian screamed, inchoate, as he tried to fly across the room, watching Titus’ hand rise even further and the cup slowly approaching his lips. He could see it tilt and the wine within it touch the rim as Titus’ mouth opened. The cup rested on his lower lip and the poison began to flow onto his tongue; Vespasian was sure that he saw his son’s throat contract with a swallow as his right hand smashed the cup away from Titus’ mouth and time cranked back up to her unrelenting speed almost in mockery of how long Titus had to live.

‘An antidote!’ Vespasian screamed at the slave woman, vaguely aware of laughter behind him. ‘What is the antidote, woman?’ He grabbed Titus, who was staring down into the pained and dead eyes of Britannicus.

The woman stood motionless, looking towards Nero.

‘Two for the price of one, Locusta,’ Nero managed to say through his mirth, ‘very good.’

Vespasian screamed again for the antidote as Caratacus grabbed Locusta by the throat and lifted her, shrieking, off her feet; the jug she carried crashed to the ground. ‘Obey me, woman, and nobody else, for it is in my hands that your miserable life lies. The antidote.’

Locusta reached into a bag hanging from her waist and brought out a phial; Caratacus took it and threw her away to land with a cracking of bones on the hard mosaic floor.

Titus spasmed as Vespasian grabbed the antidote, ripping the cork out with his teeth. He slammed his son’s head down onto the still chest of Britannicus and tipped the contents of the phial down his open throat. Once empty he threw it away, pinched Titus’ nose and pressed his mouth shut; there was another spasm but then he swallowed. Vespasian looked into Titus’ eyes willing him to live, as Nero’s laughter still echoed in his ears; no one else made a sound apart from Locusta groaning over a broken arm. Titus’ eyes widened in pain, the pupils so dilated there was no colour in them, just black and white. There was another spasm but weaker this time and his face relaxed.

Caratacus pulled Vespasian to his feet. ‘Lift him; we must get him out of here.’

Vespasian did as he was told, unthinkingly knowing that was the right thing to do.

‘Father?’ Titus mumbled.

‘You’ll be all right; I knocked the cup away before you drank too much and you’ve had the whole antidote.’

‘Who said you can leave?’ Nero shouted, his laughter dying.

‘With your permission I’m taking them into my care, Princeps,’ Caratacus said, helping to lift Titus. ‘As you showed mercy to me so I beg you show mercy to this son of Rome. Rome’s lost one son already today; do not make her lose a second.’

Without waiting for an answer Vespasian hauled Titus to his feet and, with the help of his one-time mortal enemy, dragged his son from the room, away from the Golden Emperor.