Rome's lost son

CHAPTER I

Persistent and shrill, the cry echoed around the walls and marble columns of the atrium; a torment to all who endured it.

Titus Flavius Vespasianus gritted his teeth, determined not to be moved by the pitiful wail as it rose and fell, occasionally pausing for a ragged breath before bellowing out again with renewed, lung-filled vigour. The suffering that it conveyed had to be borne and Vespasian knew that should he not have the stomach for it he would lose the ongoing battle of wills; and that was something that he could not afford to do.

A new cacophony of anguish emitted from the writhing bundle in his wife’s arms, its movements caught in the flickering glow of the log fire spitting and crackling in the atrium hearth. Vespasian winced and then held his head high and crooked his left arm before him as his body slave draped his toga over and around his well-muscled, compact frame, watched by Titus, Vespasian’s eleven-year-old son.

With the heavy woollen garment eventually hanging to his satisfaction and the howls showing no sign of abating, Vespasian eased into the pair of red leather, senatorial slippers that his slave held out for him. ‘The heels, Hormus.’ Hormus ran a finger around the back of each shoe so that his master’s feet fitted snugly and then stood and backed away with deference, leaving Titus facing his father.

Doing his best to remain calm as the din reached a new level, Vespasian contemplated Titus for a few moments. ‘Does the Emperor still come every day to check on his son’s progress?’

‘Most days, Father; and he also asks me and the other boys questions, as well as Britannicus.’

Vespasian flinched at a particularly shrill bawl and strove to ignore it. ‘What happens if you get them wrong?’

‘Sosibius beats us after Claudius has gone.’

Vespasian hid his less than favourable opinion of the grammaticus from his son. It had been Sosibius’ fallacious allegations at the Empress Messalina’s behest, three years earlier, that had set in train a series of events that had ended up in Vespasian bearing false witness against the former Consul, Asiaticus, in order to protect his brother, Sabinus. Using Vespasian as a willing tool, however, Asiaticus had had his revenge from beyond the grave and Messalina had been executed; Vespasian had been present as she shrieked and cursed her last. But Sosibius was still in place, his fabricated charges corroborated by Vespasian’s false testimony. ‘Does he often beat you?’

Titus’ face hardened into a strained expression, startling Vespasian by its similarity to his own, older version. The thick nose not so pronounced, the earlobes not so long, the jaw not so heavy and with a full head of hair rather than his semi-wreath about the crown; but there was no mistaking it: Titus was his son. ‘Yes, Father, but Britannicus says that it’s because his stepmother, the Empress, has ordered him to.’

‘Then deny Agrippina that pleasure and make sure that Sosibius has no cause to beat you today.’

‘If he does it’ll be the last time. Britannicus has thought of a way to have him dismissed and at the same time insult his stepbrother.’

Vespasian ruffled Titus’ hair. ‘Don’t you get involved in any feud between Britannicus and Nero.’

‘I’ll always support my friend, Father.’

‘Just be sure that you don’t make it too public.’ Vespasian took the boy’s chin in his hand and examined his face. ‘It’s dangerous; do you understand me?’

Titus nodded slowly. ‘Yes, Father, I believe I do.’

‘Good, now be off with you. Hormus, see Titus out to his escort. Are Magnus’ lads waiting?’

‘Yes, master.’

As Hormus led Titus away the bawling continued. Vespasian turned to face Flavia Domitilla, his wife of twelve years; she sat staring into the fire doing nothing to try to soothe the babe in her arms. ‘If you really want my clients to mistake you for the wet nurse when I let them in for the morning salutio, my dear, then I suggest that you plug little Domitian onto one of your breasts and sing Gallic lullabies to him.’

Flavia snorted and carried on staring at the flames. ‘At least then they’ll think that we can afford a Gallic wet nurse.’

Vespasian pushed his head forward, frowning, unable to credit what he had just heard. ‘What are you talking about, woman? We’ve got a Gallic wet nurse; it’s just that this morning you’ve chosen not to call for her and instead you seem to be intent on starving the child.’ To emphasise the point he picked up a piece of bread from his recently abandoned breakfast, dipped it in the bowl of olive oil and then chewed on it with relish.

‘She’s not Gallic! She’s Hispanic.’

Vespasian suppressed a sigh of exasperation. ‘Yes, she is from Hispania but she is a Celt, a Celtiberian. She’s from the same race of huge tribesmen that all the finest women in Rome choose to have breastfeed their sons; it’s just that when her ancestors crossed the Rhenus they didn’t stop in Gaul, they carried on over the mountains into Hispania.’

‘And therefore she produces milk so thin that a kitten wouldn’t survive on it.’

‘Her milk is no different from any other Celt’s.’

‘Your niece swears by her Allobroges woman.’

‘How Lucius Junius Paetus chooses to indulge his wife is his own affair. However, to my mind, allowing a baby to go hungry because its wet nurse isn’t from one of the more fashionable Celtic tribes is the act of an irresponsible mother.’

‘And to my mind dragging a wife to live in the squalor of the Quirinal Hill and then not allowing her to purchase the staff that she needs to look after the family is the act of an uncaring and heartless husband and father.’

Vespasian smiled to himself but kept his face neutral now they had got to the nub of the matter. Two and a half years previously Vespasian had used his good standing with Pallas, as the freedman had manoeuvred himself to the most powerful position in Claudius’ court, to remove Flavia and their children from the apartment in the imperial palace where they had lived for most of Vespasian’s four years as legate of the II Augusta in Britannia. The accommodation had been offered by Claudius ostensibly so that their two sons could be educated together and also so that Messalina, Claudius’ then wife, would have a companion in the palace. However, Vespasian knew that the Emperor had been manipulated into making the offer by Messalina’s brother, Corvinus, so that his old enemy could have the power of life and death over Flavia and their children. After Messalina’s violent end, Pallas had kept his word to persuade Claudius to allow Vespasian to move his family to a house in Pomegranate Street, on the Quirinal Hill, near to that of his uncle, the senator Gaius Vespasius Pollo.

Flavia had resented this.

‘If you call protecting my family from the ravages of imperial politics uncaring; and if you call being prudent with money so as not to be subject to the fripperies of the ladies of fashion heartless, then you’ve understood my character perfectly, my dear. It is bad enough that Titus goes to the palace each day to share Britannicus’ education but that was Claudius’ price for allowing me to move you out; having executed the boy’s mother he didn’t want his son to be deprived of his little playmate as well. Surely our son being educated alongside the Emperor’s is enough to satisfy your vanity, despite the danger that puts him in; surely that makes up for all this squalor?’ He indicated with a lazy hand the good-sized atrium around them. Although he would freely concede its decoration was not up to the standards of the palace — it having been built 150 years before, during the time of Gaius Marius — what it lacked in splendour with the mosaic floor’s geometric black and white motif or the faded pastoral frescoes, designed to fool the beholder into thinking that they were looking through windows, it made up for with his wife’s extravagance. It was filled with furniture and ornaments that Flavia had acquired during her lavish spending sprees while under Messalina’s profligate influence.

Vespasian still shuddered every time he surveyed the room’s décor surrounding the impluvium, the pond with a fountain of Venus at its centre: low, polished-marble tables on gilded legs covered with glass or silver ornaments, statuettes of fine bronze or worked crystal, couches and chairs, carved, painted and upholstered. It was not because of its vulgarity — he could cope with that even though it offended his country-born taste for the simple things in life — it was because of the amount of wasted money that it represented. ‘Surely having all the other women jealously arguing amongst themselves as to whether Agrippina will kill Titus along with Britannicus as she clears the way for her son Nero to succeed his stepfather is enough to make you feel special and the centre of attention; like any self-respecting woman would wish for?’

Flavia clutched the bundle of their two-month-old son so tightly that for a moment Vespasian was worried that she would do him some damage. Then she relaxed and stood, holding the child to her breast with tears in her eyes. ‘After all that I’ve done for you, for us, you should accord me a little respect, Vespasian. You are one of the sitting Consuls; I should be able to deport myself as the wife of a consul and not some lowly equestrian upstart …’

‘Which, when you consider the matter, is what we both are.’

Flavia’s mouth dropped open but no sound emerged.

‘Now, my dear, I’m going to open the door to all this squalor for my clients; they will greet me not only as the master of this squalor but also as the Consul of Rome who can do great favours for them and they will ignore the fact that I come from a Sabine family that can only boast one member of the Senate before me and my brother, just as they will ignore my rough Sabine accent. And then, having dealt out private patronage, I shall, as Consul of Rome, publicly deliver one of Rome’s greatest enemies to the Emperor for punishment. If you like, you and our daughter may come to watch, along with all the other women, and you can enjoy the false compliments that they give you. Or perhaps you’re too afraid to show your face because your husband bought you a wet nurse who belongs to a tribe that is so out of fashion that she cannot even produce decent milk.’

Vespasian turned and signalled to his doorkeeper to open up; it was with some relief that he heard the brisk clatter of Flavia’s retreating footsteps over the mewling of his youngest son.

Vespasian sat on his curule chair in front of the impluvium at the centre of the atrium; the gentle spatter of the fountain, issuing from a vase on Venus’ shoulder, remained constant as the dawn light grew, adding a steely tinge to the lifelike, painted skin tones of her naked torso basking in the oil lamps’ glow. Hormus stood behind him making notes on a wax tablet. To either side of him were posted the twelve lictors who would accompany him, as consul, everywhere in Rome, carrying the fasces, the axes bound with rods, as a symbol of his power to command and execute. However, it was not civic power that Vespasian was exercising now but, rather, personal power as the last and least important of his two hundred or so clients greeted him.

Vespasian nodded his acknowledgement to the man. ‘I have no use for you today, Balbus, you may return to your business once you have escorted me to the Forum.’

‘An honour, Consul.’ Balbus adjusted his plain white citizen’s toga and withdrew to one side.

‘How many waiting for a private interview, Hormus?’ Vespasian asked, looking around the room filled with respectful men talking in murmurs as they waited for their patron to leave the house.

Hormus had no need to consult his tablet. ‘Three that you asked to stay and then a further seven who requested an audience.’

Vespasian sighed; it would be a long morning. However, as the Senate was not due to sit that day it was one of the few occasions that he had the time to deal with personal business before his public duties would call him away; and it was with great interest that he was looking forward to his public duties.

‘And then there’s a man who is not your client asking for an interview as well.’

‘Really? What’s his name?’

‘Agarpetus.’

Vespasian was none the wiser.

‘He’s a client of the imperial freedman Narcissus.’

Vespasian raised his eyebrows. ‘A client of Narcissus’ here to see me? Is it a message or is he trying to ingratiate himself with me?’

‘He didn’t say, master.’

Vespasian digested this for a few moments before rising to his feet; formality dictated that he would have to see this man last, after his own clients, so it would be a while before his curiosity would be satisfied.

But first, business.

Followed by his slave, he walked with the slow dignity of the leading magistrate in Rome, past the men awaiting his favour, to the tablinum, the room curtained off at the far end of the atrium, and seated himself behind the desk. ‘I’ll deal with the three that I need favours from, first, Hormus; in order of precedence.’

‘What the Emperor did while he held the office of censor, four years ago, cannot be undone, Laelius,’ Vespasian said, having heard the final plea for favour from a balding citizen wearing a very finely woven crimson tunic under his plain white toga. A heavy gold chain glinted around his neck.

‘I understand that, patronus; however, the situation has changed.’ Laelius produced a scroll from the fold of his toga and stepped up to the desk to hand it to Vespasian. ‘This is a receipt from the Cloelius Brothers’ banking business in the Forum Romanum. It is for exactly one hundred thousand denarii, the financial threshold for admittance to the equestrian order. When Claudius stripped me of equestrian rank four years ago he was perfectly right to do so as, owing to a series of unwise investments, my combined wealth in property and cash had fallen well below the limit. But now, thanks to your brother, at your behest, securing me the contract to supply chickpeas to the Danuvius Fleet, I’ve reversed my fortunes and am now financially eligible for readmittance.’

Vespasian glanced at the receipt; it was genuine. ‘The Emperor may not revise the rolls for a few years yet.’

Laelius wrung his hands; there was a hint of desperation in his voice. ‘My son is now seventeen; only as an eques can I hope to secure him a post as a military tribune and start him on the Cursus Honorum. In two or three years it’ll be too late.’

For all his client’s outward appearance of confidence Vespasian could perceive that Laelius was just another middle-aged man dogged by the spectre of impending old age with nothing to show for his life. But, if he could get his son started upon the succession of honours, the military and political career that could lead to a seat in the Senate, then he could justifiably claim to have done honour for his family by bettering it. Vespasian could understand his position well; it had been his parents’ ambition for their family that had driven Vespasian and his brother Sabinus to the highest office that a citizen could achieve — barring, of course, becoming emperor; that was the prerogative of one family alone. ‘Do I take it that there are two favours that you are asking me: firstly to use my influence with the imperial household to have Claudius enrol you in the equestrian order, and then to ask my brother to get your son a post as a military tribune in one of his two Moesian legions? Having already got him to award you the chickpea contract.’

Laelius winced and produced another scroll from his toga. ‘I know I ask a lot, patronus, but I give a lot in return. I know that senators are forbidden to conduct trade; however, I know of no reason why a senator should not benefit from trade that is conducted by someone else. This is a legal document that would make you a sleeping-partner in my business with an interest of ten per cent of the profits.’

Vespasian took the scroll, perused it and then handed it over his shoulder to Hormus standing behind him. ‘Very well, Laelius, if you make it twelve per cent I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Have Hormus make the alteration in the contract, patronus.’

‘It will be his pleasure.’

Laelius bowed his head repeatedly in thanks and gratitude while rubbing his hands and calling down the blessings of all the gods onto his patron as Hormus escorted him out through the curtains.

Vespasian took a few sips of watered wine while he waited for his final supplicant of the morning, contemplating, as he did, just what a client of Narcissus’ could want from him.

‘Tiberius Claudius Agarpetus,’ Hormus announced, showing in a clean-shaven, wiry man of evident wealth, judging by the heavily jewelled rings on each of his fingers and thumbs. He had the olive skin of the northern Greeks, which was stretched tight over his high-cheekboned, sharp-nosed face. Regardless of having two Roman names he disdained the toga, despite the formality of the occasion.

Vespasian did not offer him a seat. ‘What can I do for you, Agarpetus?’

‘It’s more about what I can do for you, Consul.’ The Greek spoke with a measured tone, his dark eyes never leaving Vespasian’s nor showing a hint of feeling.

‘What can a freedman do for me? I assume that you are Narcissus’ freedman since you bear his names that he took from Claudius when he freed him in turn.’

‘That is correct, Consul. Narcissus freed me two years ago and since then I have worked for him on a variety of delicate tasks involving the gathering of information.’

‘I see. So you spy for him?’

‘Not as such; I gather information from his agents in the eastern provinces and make assessments as to its veracity and importance so my patron only sees what he needs to see.’

‘Ah, so you’re a saver of time?’

‘Indeed.’

‘And a possessor of knowledge.’

‘Yes, Consul; I am a saver of time and a possessor of knowledge.’

Vespasian could see where this was leading. ‘Knowledge that could be of value to me?’

‘Very much so.’

‘At what price?’

‘A meeting: you and your uncle with my patron.’

Vespasian frowned and ran a hand over his almost-bald crown. ‘Why didn’t Narcissus just ask us himself? He may be out of favour with Claudius but he’s still the imperial secretary and retains the power to summon a consul and a senator.’

‘That is so, but he wants the meeting to be secret; so therefore it has to be away from the palace, away from the eyes and ears of the Empress and her lover.’

‘Pallas?’

‘As you know, my patron and Pallas are not on the best of terms …’

‘And as you know, my loyalty is to Pallas and I won’t be a part of Narcissus’ schemes against him.’

‘Not even if Pallas would knowingly allow the Empress to block your career?’

Vespasian scoffed. ‘Block my career? Does it look like it’s blocked? I’m Consul.’

‘But you will go no further; there’ll be no province to govern, no military command, nothing, just political oblivion. My patron asks you to consider this: why were you made consul for only the last two months of this year?’

‘Because my forty-second birthday was in November and so it wasn’t until then that I was eligible. It was a great honour to be the Emperor’s colleague in the office.’

‘No doubt that non-entity Calventius Vetus Carminius thought exactly the same thing when he was Claudius’ colleague for September and October; in fact I would suspect that he thought it even more of an honour than you did, seeing as he’d done nothing to merit the position.’

Vespasian opened his mouth to refute the claim and then closed it immediately, his mind racing.

Agarpetus pressed his argument. ‘But surely it would have been a greater honour for the victorious legate of the Second Augusta to have been made consul in January next year? In only a few days’ time you could have been the Junior Consul for a full six months, perhaps even with the Emperor as your colleague, and the year would have been named after you both. But no, you were given a crumb after all your loyal service in Britannia, just a crumb, a two-month consulship, just like the man you succeeded whom nobody had ever heard of; and do you know why?’

Vespasian did not answer; his mind was too busy.

‘The Empress hates you because of your son’s friendship with Britannicus; and Pallas is powerless to help you against such an enemy. It was she who persuaded her gullible husband that it would be a singular honour for you to be made consul in the very month that you were first eligible and it will be her who’ll block any appointment that may be mooted for you when you step down on the first day of January, three days hence. Your only hope for advancement is her demise, and loyalty to Pallas won’t bring that about. Narcissus, on the other hand …’ Agarpetus trailed off leaving the last thought dangling.

Vespasian still said nothing as his mind worked and the truth of what he was being told became apparent. He did not argue with it because he realised that deep down he had always known; deep down he had been insulted by being given the consulship for the final two months of a year; deep down, he had known it to be a snub; deep down, the honour that he felt at being consul had been gnawed at by resentment. But he had kept all that buried — deep down. ‘How will she block me?’

‘Your brother has just failed Rome in quite a spectacular way …’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is the knowledge that we thought would be of interest to you; Narcissus will explain if you meet him. Suffice it to say that Sabinus’ mistake is excuse enough to halt all ambitions that any member of your family may have. Pallas cannot help you, so that leaves you with one option.’

Trust Narcissus to reach straight for the truth of the matter; trust him to know how to manipulate. Vespasian looked at Agarpetus, his decision made; it had not been hard to choose between obscurity and disloyalty. ‘Very well; I’ll meet Narcissus.’

Agarpetus gave the wry smile of a man who has had a prediction confirmed — his first change of expression. ‘He suggests that the safest place to meet would be at the tavern of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood; he believes that your friend, your uncle’s client, Marcus Salvius Magnus, is still the patronus there.’

‘He is.’

‘Very good, his discretion is assured; Narcissus and I will be there tonight at the seventh hour as the city celebrates today’s executions.’

‘Good morning, dear boy!’ Gaius Vespasius Pollo boomed as he waddled fast to fall into step next to his nephew, his expansive belly and buttocks and his sagging breasts and chins all swaying furiously to seemingly different beats. ‘Thank you for inviting me to share the honour of conducting the prisoners to the Emperor.’ Behind him his clients fell in with those of Vespasian to make an entourage of well over five hundred escorting them down the Quirinal Hill.

Vespasian inclined his head. ‘Thank you, Uncle, for lending me your clients to add impact to my arrival in the Forum.’

‘My pleasure; it makes a nice change to be preceded by lictors again.’

‘“Change pleases”,’ a voice quoted from just behind Gaius, ‘and it makes a nice change for me and the lads not to have to beat you a path through the crowds, seeing as you have them do it professionally today; and don’t they do it so well?’

‘Indeed, and with more satisfaction too, I’ll hazard, Magnus,’ Gaius suggested, starting to sweat despite the dignified pace and the chill winter wind. ‘After all, a lictor gets paid and therefore mixes business with pleasure.’

Magnus’ battered ex-boxer’s face screwed into an indignant frown and he looked slantendicular at his patron with his one good eye — the painted glass ball in his left eye socket stared futilely ahead. ‘Are you saying that my lads don’t enjoy beating a path for you, senator? Because you certainly pay us to do so, although, granted, not in the same way as the College of Lictors remunerates its members. However, you reward us in subtle and much more lucrative ways, which means that our business is far more satisfying, if you take my meaning?’

Vespasian laughed and squeezed his friend’s shoulder; despite Magnus being nineteen years his senior and considerably below him socially, they had been friends since Vespasian had first come to Rome as a youth of sixteen. He and his uncle knew far better than most just how satisfying Magnus found his business in the criminal underbelly of Rome as the leader of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood. ‘I do, my friend; and it pleases me that even at your age you still derive satisfaction from your work.’

Magnus ran a hand through his hair, grey with age but still thick. ‘Now you’re mocking me, sir; I may be sixty but there’s still some fight and fuck in me left — although I don’t see as well as I used to since losing the eye and that is becoming a bit of a problem, I’ll admit. I ain’t as sharp as I was and some of the surrounding brotherhoods are getting a whiff of that.’

‘Perhaps it’s time to think about retiring and taking life easy; take your patron’s example: he hasn’t made a speech in the Senate for three years now.’

Gaius brushed away a carefully tonged and dyed curl from his face and looked at Vespasian in alarm. ‘Dear boy, you wonder why, when the last speech I was forced to make was reading out a list of all the senators and equites accused of crimes with Messalina and condemned to death. That sort of exposure makes one very conspicuous and that’s how I still feel three years later, having not even countenanced the possibility of holding an opinion, let alone considered expressing one, during all that time.’

‘Well, I’m afraid that you may be dragged out of your self-imposed retirement, Uncle.’

The alarm on Gaius’ face intensified. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Not what but whom, Uncle.’

‘Pallas?’

‘I wish it were but I’m afraid it’s not.’

‘Is that wise?’ Gaius asked after Vespasian had finished recounting his meeting with Agarpetus. ‘If you refuse to meet him, there is still a chance that Pallas may be able to exert some pressure over Agrippina; he might get her to change her mind or at least not oppose you so vehemently just because your boy happens to be her stepson’s best friend. But once you go behind Pallas’ back to Narcissus then all trust and expectation of loyalty is broken and we lose the best ally that this family has in the palace.’

‘But that ally is the lover of my enemy.’

‘And so therefore Pallas has become your enemy whilst Narcissus is Agrippina’s enemy thus making him your friend? Dear boy, think: Pallas has done nothing more than protect his own position by allying himself with Agrippina; he has made the sensible choice seeing as Nero is a far more suitable candidate to succeed Claudius than Britannicus, purely because he’s three years older. Claudius won’t last more than two, perhaps three, more years; do you really think that a boy could rule?’

Vespasian considered the question as the party passed under a colonnade and entered the Forum of Augustus dominated by the vividly painted Temple of Mars Victorious resplendent in deep red and strong, golden yellow. Statues, togate or in military uniform, equally as brightly painted, stood on plinths around the edge of the Forum, their eyes — which exposed Magnus’ false one for the cheap imitation it was — following the public about their business as if the great men commemorated still guided the city. ‘No, Uncle, not without a regent,’ he admitted eventually.

‘And who would that be in Britannicus’ case? His mother, thank the gods, is dead so that leaves his uncle, Corvinus, or Burrus, the prefect of the Praetorian Guard. No one can countenance either option so the weight of opinion is favouring Nero because, since his fourteenth birthday fifteen days ago, he has taken his toga virilis. If Claudius dies tomorrow we have a man to put in his place.’

‘If Nero becomes emperor, Agrippina will see to it that I’ll never hold office again.’

‘Then pull Titus away from Britannicus and the problem is solved.’

‘Is it? Claudius would be offended; what happens if he surprises us all and lives for another ten years?’

It was Gaius’ turn to contemplate the question as they passed through into Caesar’s Forum where the Urban prefect and lesser civic magistrates could be petitioned in the shadow of a great equestrian statue of the one-time dictator himself. ‘That would be unfortunate,’ Gaius conceded, ‘but highly unlikely.’

‘But not impossible. If I’ve earned Agrippina’s enmity, would you deem it wise to try to buy her friendship by earning Claudius’ as well?’

‘If you put it like that, then no.’

‘So what choice do we have other than going to meet with Narcissus tonight?’

Massed cheering broke out as Vespasian’s twelve lictors came out into the Forum Romanum, their appearance announcing the arrival of one of the Consuls at the Senate House to the thousands of citizenry come to witness the greatest day in Rome since the Ovation of Aulus Plautius four years previously. This would be the day when Rome’s great enemy, the chieftain who had led the resistance to her latest conquest, would pay for his temerity and die before the Emperor.

But first, in the absence of his imperial senior colleague who waited at the Praetorian camp, outside the Viminal Gate, it was Vespasian’s task to make the sacrifice and read the auspices; it was important that the gods declare the day auspicious for the business of the city to be carried out. Vespasian had no doubt that it would be so.

Blood spurted in heartbeat bursts into the copper basin beneath the white bullock’s gaping neck. The beast’s eyes barely focused, stunned as it was by the Father of the House’s mallet blow to its forehead made an instant before Vespasian, a fold of his toga covering his head, wielded the knife. Its forelegs and shoulders began to shudder, blood flowing down them. Its tongue lolled from its mouth and it voided its bowels with a steaming splatter as the juddering limbs collapsed, bringing the victim to its knees in front of the Senate House. Standing arrayed on the steps in order of precedence, the five hundred senators currently residing in the city looked on with a solemn dignity as this ancient ceremony was enacted, as of time immemorial, in the very heart of Rome.

Vespasian had stepped back, keeping well away from the various discharges emitting from the bullock — it would be considered a bad omen for the presiding Consul to have his toga sullied and the whole ritual would have to be repeated. The Father of the House supervised the removal of the filled basin by two public slaves just before the animal slumped to the ground, its heartbeat fast diminishing as it made the transition from living flesh to inanimate carcass.

Vespasian repeated the formulaic words over the dead beast, entreating Jupiter Opitmus Maximus’ blessing on his city, just as they had been intoned by incumbents of his office since the founding of the Republic. Four more public slaves rolled the body onto its back and stretched its four limbs in preparation for the belly incision.

The stench of steaming, fresh viscera assaulted Vespasian’s nostrils as his honed blade slit open the gift to Rome’s guardian god; the crowd, packing the Forum and beyond, held its collective breath. After a series of careful, expert incisions Vespasian lifted out the still warm heart and, having presented it to his fellow senators and then to the equites at the front of the huge throng, placed it to sizzle and hiss in the fire burning on Jupiter’s altar before the open wood and iron doors of the Curia.

Two public slaves on either side pulled back the ribcage and Vespasian began the tricky task of detaching the liver without staining his toga. Having presided over many sacrifices he knew that the key to this was steady work; with methodical patience, the organ was soon removed intact and placed on the table next to the altar. Using a cloth put there for the purpose, Vespasian wiped the liver clean of blood and ran his hand over the surface. In an instant he froze and felt his heart attempt to leap into his mouth; his chest heaved with a couple of laboured breaths and his eyes stared fixedly at a blemish, almost purple on the red-brown flesh. But a blemish has no regular or specific shape and that was not true of the mark on the liver’s surface caused, it seemed, by two veins coming almost to the surface together; it had a well-defined form, almost as if it had been branded on, in much the same way as a slave-owner would brand his possession: with a single letter. And it was the letter that had startled him; small but prominent, it was the letter with which his cognomen began. What he saw before him was the letter ‘V’. But more than that, the mark was in almost the exact centre of the liver just to the left of the thin central lobe; in the area that the ancient Etruscan diviners considered sacred to Mars, his guardian god.

Knowing that an omen, found on a liver gifted to Jupiter in Rome’s name, so blatantly referring to him, as the master of the sacrifice, could be open to many interpretations — most of them incurring the jealousy of those in power — Vespasian turned the liver over and examined a reassuringly unblemished underside. Then, taking care to place his thumb over the potentially treasonous mark, he lifted the organ and showed it to the Father of the House and declared the day propitious for the business of Rome. But the image of the mark played before his eyes.

‘So be it,’ the Father cried in an aged, reedy voice as Vespasian placed the liver on the altar fire. ‘Bring out the prisoners!’

There was movement around the Tullianum, the prison at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, next to the Germonian Stairs, in the shadow of the Temple of Juno on the Arx above it. Soldiers of the Urban Cohorts cleared an area in front of the single door before a centurion, with the transverse white horsehair crest on his helmet fluttering in the light breeze, rapped on the door with his vine cane.

The crowd hushed in anticipation.

A few moments later the door opened and a line of manacled prisoners shuffled out and still the crowd stayed silent, waiting for the one man they had all come to see.

And then a bulky figure filled the open doorway to Rome’s only public prison, his head bowed as he passed through into the open. There was a massed intake of breath; he was not miserably clad and beaten down like the wretches before him. Quite the contrary; he wore the clothes and held the demeanour of a king.

‘Very clever,’ Gaius murmured, ‘the grander you dress him the higher you elevate him, and the greater Claudius looks when he tears him down and humbles him.’

Vespasian gazed at the prisoner standing there, his bronze winged helmet reflecting the weak sun, his hands manacled but his chest blown out and proud beneath a weighty chain mail tunic as the crowd’s reaction grew into a cacophony of booing and hissing. There stood the man whom he had not seen since that night, five years before, when he had led his army out of the shadowed north and come within moments of catching the II Augusta manoeuvring into position. There stood the man who had almost destroyed a legion, Vespasian’s legion.

There stood Caratacus.