Rome's lost son

CHAPTER II

The people of Rome jeered and hurled abuse and missiles at the captives as they were driven across the Forum Romanum. Yet Caratacus feigned not to notice as he looked around like a tourist on his first visit to the greatest city on earth. However, it was not with an overawed countenance that he observed the arched facade of the Tabularium and the majestic columns of the Temple of Jupiter perched above it, nor did his round, ruddy face betray any wonder as he passed the Temples of Concordia and Saturn. And it was with grey eyes devoid of admiration that he arrived at the steps of the Senate House. His magnificent, drooping moustaches rippled in the breeze as he surveyed the grave faces of the five hundred leading citizens of Rome draped in their chalked-white togas edged with a thick purple stripe, shod in red leather and with all those eligible wearing military crowns or surrounded by lictors according to rank.

Vespasian stood at the top of the steps, at the very centre of the senatorial throng, as Caratacus was brought to a halt at their foot. He raised both hands for silence, which was slow in coming but eventually manifest as the people realised that the proceedings of the day would not progress unless there was order. ‘Caratacus of the Catuvellauni,’ Vespasian declaimed in a clear, high voice, pitched to carry over the expanse of faces looking at him. ‘You have been defeated in arms and captured by Rome; now you have been brought here for the Senate to take you to your Emperor for sentence. Do you have anything to say?’

Caratacus drew himself up and looked Vespasian in the eye. ‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus, Consul of Rome and erstwhile legate of the Second Augusta, whom I had the honour to face in battle, I greet you as a brother-in-arms and congratulate you on the skill that you showed in saving the lives of your men on the night I ambushed you. Consul, I salute you.’

To Vespasian’s surprise and the surprise of all else present, the Britannic King snapped a Roman salute, slamming his fist onto his breast.

‘I have two things to say to you before I go before the Emperor: firstly, although Rome did defeat me in arms, Rome did not capture me; I was betrayed by the witch-queen Cartimandua and her husband Venutius of the Brigantes, who broke the laws of hospitality in a way that would shame even the most primitive of peoples. And secondly, Claudius is not my Emperor; if he were so then I would not be here but, rather, at home where I once happily lived. However, I would be pleased to meet the man who desires to possess more than all this.’ He gestured around the expanse of the Forum Romanum before turning back to Vespasian. ‘So lead on, Consul, I am curious to meet your Emperor.’

Vespasian’s twelve lictors led the procession along the Via Sacra, past the House of the Vestals and the Domus Publica and many other sights, to no more than a rumbling murmur from the crowd. Gone were the jeers and the insults and not even a crust of stale bread flew towards the Britannic King as he strode behind Vespasian and the other leading magistrates, erect and dignified, a full head taller than most of them and their lictors. News of his words had filtered through the crowd and it was with reverence that they watched him pass with the rest of the Senate following behind, out of the Forum and then left, up towards the Vicus Patricius where the buildings became less grand as the tenements of the Subura jostled against one another for mutual support and where prostitution was the main reason for the transferral of coinage.

But it was with unseeing eyes that Vespasian made the journey; his mind was not on this world.

Ever since, as a boy of fifteen, he had overheard his parents discussing the omens found at his naming ceremony, he had suspected that he was subject to the will of his guardian god, Mars; but no one would tell him what had been predicted as his mother had subjected all present to an oath never to reveal what signs they had seen on the sacrifices. Was what he had seen today similar? A ‘V’ stamped in the realm of Mars on the liver dedicated by him to Rome’s greatest god, Jupiter. But there were many parts of this puzzle and as he tentatively pieced them together a picture emerged whose entirety he had already glimpsed.

The Oracle of Amphiariaos holding a centuries-old prophecy to be delivered only to him and Sabinus. Tiberius’ astrologer advising the old Emperor that a senator who witnessed the Phoenix’s rebirth in Egypt would father the next dynasty of emperors: Vespasian had witnessed the event in Siwa and thought nothing of it until Sabinus had told him that the oasis had once been a part of the Kingdom of Egypt. Then there was the Oracle of Amun and the dying gift of his patroness, the Lady Antonia: the sword of her father, Marcus Antonius, one of the greatest of all the Romans. There was also Myrddin, the immortal druid of Britannia; he had told Vespasian that he had seen the destiny that Mars held for him. That destiny had terrified Myrddin because he was convinced that Vespasian would one day have the power, but fail to use it, to halt a disease now germinated in the heart of Rome; a disease, Mryddin believed, that would eventually destroy the old and true religions. Twice, Myrddin had tried to kill him with his gods conjured to life; proof that the gods existed, proof that they had power. That he had survived, Vespasian knew, was proof that Mars held his hands over him; and because that was certain, what he had seen that morning should be taken seriously.

All this echoed around his head as he led the procession towards the heir to the Julio-Claudian bloodline: a twitching, limping, dribbling fool ruled by his wife and freedmen. A scholarly historian? Perhaps. A legal pedant of some note? Certainly. But a wise emperor who weighed his words or a vain fool, dismissive of the talents of others, resentful for years of humiliation and under the mistaken impression that he was one of the finest wits of the age?

On they went up the Viminal, along the Vicus Patricius, to barely a raised voice, past the more respectable brothels of both sexes and on towards the Viminal Gate, beyond which waited the fool who drooled. Vespasian put his thoughts to the back of his mind and wondered how the Emperor would deal with a man of such dignity and so worthy of respect as Caratacus.

Then Vespasian considered what he would do were he in Claudius’ position.

The Praetorian Guard crunched to attention, shaking the ground as thousands of feet stamped down in absolute unison. Beyond the ranks and files of regimented cohorts, crows rose, in wing-beating chaos, from the rooftops of the Praetorian camp, protesting with shrill caws the interruption of their morning slumber. The sharp bellows of command and the resulting military thunder echoed between the camp’s walls and the city’s high, brick-built Servian defences for a few moments before fading abruptly to leave only the fluttering of massed banners and the faint hiss of the breeze blowing through thousands of horsehair crests, augmented occasionally by mournful bird-cry. Rigid, the men of Rome’s élite unit held their eyes to the front, unblinking, as the Senate paraded through the Viminal Gate, Vespasian at their head, bearing the gift of a captured king and his retinue to their Emperor.

Claudius was seated on one of two daises to the left of the Guard’s formation with the wives and children of the leading men in Rome to his other side. Flavia and their eight-year-old daughter, Domitilla, were seated in places of honour to the front of the women; her pride in Vespasian’s position was very apparent as she sat, bolt upright, her head turning from side to side acknowledging the real or imagined compliments of her peers, her worries over wet nurses temporarily put to one side.

The Senate progressed without haste, giving every guardsman the chance of a glimpse of the rebel King before he met his inevitable death: garrotted and self-soiled at the feet of the Emperor. Even from a distance Claudius’ nervous tic was apparent; his head jerked and his limbs shook with irregular frequency as the parade neared him.

It was with a shock of disgust that Vespasian saw the occupant of the second dais: Agrippina. Never had a woman been raised to the same level as the First Man in Rome. Not even Augustus’ wife, Livia, had sought such an honour and not even Cleopatra had achieved it when she had visited her lover and father of her son, the dictator Gaius Julius Caesar, in Rome almost a century earlier. And now here was the direct female descendant of those two great men, well into her forties, acting as if she were their equal while her uncle-husband twitched and dribbled, dabbing the drool from his chin with the edge of his toga; incongruous in his laurel wreath and purple.

Arranged around the two daises were the men and women who benefitted from their close connections with either one — or both — of the occupants. Exactly between them was Pallas, his beard and hair now flecked with grey and his face and eyes, as ever, neutral; a mask that could not be read, a mask that Vespasian had only once ever seen drop.

Between Pallas and Agrippina stood Nero: fourteen years old and with the milky-skinned face of a young god, resplendently topped by lush curls, the golden-red hue of dawn. He stood, almost side-on with his left foot pointing forward, wearing the senatorial toga that the Senate had voted him, along with the rank of proconsul, when he had come of age a mere fifteen days ago. In sharp contrast, to Pallas’ other side, stood Britannicus, ten years old and still wearing the toga praetexta of a child with its narrow purple stripe. That and his thin, lank brown hair, long face and deep-set eyes, all inherited from his father, placed him physically well in the shadow of the dazzling Prince of the Youth, as his stepbrother was now titled.

Behind Britannicus his sister, Claudia Octavia, evidently found the allure of her stepbrother hard to resist and her eyes wandered in Nero’s direction with a frequency that could not be helped in a newly pubescent maiden.

Both in their early fifties and both running to fat, Lucius Annaeus Seneca and Sosibius, tutors of Nero and Britannicus respectively, hovered near their charges, anxious that their manners should be impeccable for fear of it reflecting badly upon themselves and the consequences that it would bring.

In the shadow of the tutors lurked Narcissus and Callistus; the first bearded and bejewelled with a full figure and face, the latter wiry and bald, wringing his hands and flicking his eyes here and there as if surrounded by enemies. Both still held positions of power but neither had the influence with the Emperor that they had once held; Pallas had seen to that. Narcissus caught Vespasian’s eye and gave the faintest of nods, surprising Vespasian: it was unlike Narcissus to be so indiscreet; he looked away wondering if that was a sign of desperation on the freedman’s part.

Vespasian’s gaze then alighted on his lover of over twenty-five years now: Caenis, as beautiful as ever with her sapphire-blue eyes, smiling briefly at him as he came to a halt just five paces away from the dais. Having been Narcissus’ secretary until Pallas had commandeered her services as he emerged victorious in the struggle to become the Master of Rome, she stood ready to record the speeches on wax tablets with a slave supporting a desk on his shoulders kneeling before her. Loved by Vespasian and tolerated by Flavia, she was the woman whom he could never marry as a result of the injunction on senators marrying freedwomen; she had been born a slave.

Vespasian’s lictors and those of all the other magistrates moved away to the left, leaving a swathe of senators surrounding the prisoners.

There was a pause as Claudius endeavoured to collect himself, his mouth working hard as he tried to form his first word. With a spray of saliva it finally came: ‘W-w-w-what does my loyal S-S-Senate bring before m-m-me?’

Vespasian took a couple of steps towards the Emperor. ‘Princeps and colleague in the consulship, we have the honour to bring a gift from Publius Ostorius Scapula, the Governor of the province of Britannia, on behalf of all the Senate. We have the rebel King, Caratacus of the Catuvellauni, and the remainder of his followers here in chains.’

Despite the fact that the whole event had been choreographed for this moment, Claudius feigned surprise. ‘Caratacus? I know of the name. What would you have me do with him?’

‘We ask for your judgement upon him.’

‘His c-c-crime?’

Vespasian struggled to keep his face dignified as he played out the farce with the fool. ‘He is the man who refused to bow to you after your glorious pacification of the island.’ This, Vespasian knew, was stretching the truth by a considerable margin. The island of Britannia was far from conquered but that could not be admitted publicly, seeing as the Emperor had already celebrated a Triumph for his victory there and then graciously allowed Aulus Plautius an Ovation upon his return. It was for this reason that Caratacus had been paraded from the Forum for execution outside the city walls rather than the other way around as in a Triumph. To imply that the military operations, involving four legions and the equivalent in auxiliaries, still raging in the infant province were anything more than local mopping-up operations against a handful of rebels would be to invalidate Claudius’ victory and call into question his Triumph. Securing Claudius’ position as emperor with the glory of conquest had been his freedmen’s whole object when they had ordered the militarily ill-conceived venture.

Claudius pretended to consider the issue for a few moments, melodramatically rubbing his moist chin, while all those present did their best to conceal their embarrassment. ‘It shall be d-d-death. Burrus!’

From behind Caenis, Sextus Afranius Burrus, Agrippina’s choice as the new prefect of the Praetorian Guard, stepped forward and yelled to his men, ‘The execution party will advance!’

Six men with garrottes marched from the ranks while a further dozen made their way to the prisoners and herded them forward. The females and some of the younger males fell to their knees before the embodiment of the Roman State, twitching on his curule chair, and issued pleas for their lives in broken Latin, tearing at their hair and rending their clothes as their executioners ranged in a line behind them.

Vespasian looked at Caratacus, hoping that the man who had been so worthy an adversary would not stoop to the level of some in his retinue; he was not disappointed. The Britannic King stood, erect and proud, disdaining to plead for his life; instead, he stared at the Emperor of Rome with no sign of incredulity at his unbecoming appearance and, when he caught Claudius’ eye, he inclined his head fractionally as if greeting an equal.

Claudius frowned and then held up a hand for silence. ‘B-b-before the reb-b-b-bel dies let him explain his actions.’

Caratacus lifted his hands so that all could see his chains. ‘Had my restraint while I was prosperous matched, rather than fallen short of, my honour and noble birth, I would have entered Rome as your friend and not your captive. You would not have disdained to receive a king descended from such illustrious ancestors, the lord of many nations, and we would have signed a treaty of mutual friendship and peace. However, now my humiliation is as glorious to you as it is degrading to me; but I have brought myself to this pass. I had men, horses, arms and wealth. Who would blame me if I parted with them reluctantly? If you Romans, in your halls of marble, who have so much, choose to become masters of the world, does it follow that we, in our huts of mud, who have comparatively little, should accept slavery? I am here as your prisoner because my pride would not allow me to give you all that I had. But I say this to you, Emperor of the Romans, neither my fall nor your triumph will become famous; I shall be just another king crushed under your heel. My punishment will be followed by oblivion and your victory will be soon forgotten. Whereas, if you grant me my life, I shall be an everlasting memorial of your clemency and bring glory to your name.’

Claudius gawped at the Britannic King, his jaw moving as if masticating stubborn gristle, while weighing these words.

As he vacillated, Agrippina stood and held out her arms to Caratacus. ‘Your eloquence has moved me.’ A tear rolled down her cheek as if in confirmation of the veracity of the statement. She turned to her son. ‘What does Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus, the Prince of the Youth, think?’

Nero had taken his mother’s lead and, with a mighty sob of raw emotion, had begun to weep. ‘I believe, Mother dearest, that my father should show clemency in this one instance. A merciful ruler is a lauded ruler and his praise will be written and sung.’ He looked towards Britannicus as his tutor, Seneca, nodded in sage agreement, the picture of self-satisfaction. ‘I’m sure my brother would agree.’

Britannicus did not meet his stepbrother’s eyes. ‘A ruler who does not punish rebellion will encourage more.’ Heads nodded in agreement with such wisdom from so young a source. ‘I believe Domitius to be wrong.’

There was a hush around the daises and all eyes looked at the Emperor to see if he would reprimand his natural son for such an insult to his adoptive one. Sosibius visibly paled and stared at his charge, his mouth open in horror. Vespasian saw Titus, standing with the other youths of the imperial household, smile involuntarily before taking on the shocked expression of his fellows.

Claudius’ head jerked and he shook as he felt the ice-glare of his wife biting into him. Nero fell to his knees as melodramatically as the wronged lover in a comedy, his tears now streaming down his face. He took the supplication pose with easy perfection as Seneca placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘Father, don’t let my brother repudiate me.’ Nero flung his head back, one hand running through his luxuriant flame curls and then rested the back of his other hand on his brow before addressing the heavens. ‘As the gods are my witness, I ceased to be a member of the Domitii when you adopted me, Father.’

Claudius’ throat spasmed as he tried to form a word; eventually it exploded from him: ‘Britannicus!’ It echoed around the walls. ‘Apologise!’

Britannicus did not quail. ‘The legitimate heir to the Purple apologises to no one. You should support your own blood, the pure blood of the Julio-Claudians, against that tainted by the Domitii. I say Caratacus should die.’ He glared at his rival who was now catching tears on his fingertips and displaying them to the crowd.

Claudius held out his fist as if adjudicating at a gladiatorial fight and kept his thumb pressed close to it in imitation of a sheathed sword. ‘C–C-Caratacus shall live! As shall his retinue.’

Burrus looked to the Empress; she glared at Britannicus and then nodded with a triumphant smile. The Praetorian prefect turned to his cohorts. ‘All hail the Emperor’s mercy!’

The roar of nine thousand voices rose to the sky, once again sending aloft the crows in fluttering spirals. The other captives fell to their knees at the foot of Claudius’ dais and reached up with their hands to touch his feet as Caratacus strode forward and bowed first to the Emperor and then to the Empress and her son, who had now risen to his feet and taken a pose with one hand on his heart and slowly shaking his head while staring into the middle distance as if attempting to summon the words with which to describe such a majestic act of mercy.

Caratacus then presented his chains to Burrus.

‘There is a very canny man,’ Gaius observed in Vespasian’s ear as Caratacus’ manacles were unlocked to renewed cheering from the Guard.

‘And there is a very unhappy boy and a very frightened tutor,’ Vespasian said, watching Sosibius usher Britannicus back towards Titus and the rest of the youths. ‘I wonder if he’ll dare to beat him one last time before he finds himself looking for a new position.’

Sosibius glanced at Agrippina in terror and Britannicus looked over his shoulder at Claudius with undisguised hatred, as the Father of the House launched into the first of many sycophantic, senatorial speeches praising the mercy of the man who had executed more of their number and the equestrian class than had his predecessor, Caligula.

The sun was well past its zenith when Claudius, having exhausted the supply of snacks brought to him at regular intervals during the long succession of speeches, grew tired of being lauded on an empty stomach and called for his litter.

Vespasian brought proceedings to a close by proposing a full debate in the Senate the following day to vote his colleague in the consulship a double-life-sized bronze statue in the Temple of Concordia in praise of his magnanimity and his ability to bring concord to all peoples.

Suitably flattered, the Emperor left, having been helped into his litter by the latest addition to the equestrian class; Caratacus was also now the proud owner of a villa on the Esquiline Hill that had belonged to a senator who had forfeited his property having been falsely accused of treason by Agrippina and executed.

‘I think you did very well out of that, dear boy,’ Gaius observed as they watched the Empress give one final venomous glare in Britannicus’ direction and then leave with Nero laying his head on her breast as the curtains of the litter were drawn. ‘The Senate will vote for Claudius’ statue and he’ll thank you for it when you step down in three days.’

‘He may thank me but he won’t reward me, Uncle.’

‘He might reward you,’ a voice said from just behind them. ‘In fact, he had plans to do so.’ Vespasian and Gaius both felt a hand on their shoulder and turned to see Pallas; the Greek inclined his head. ‘And in a way that you would, perhaps, have expected.’

‘I’d expect to be given a province, and not a senatorial province but an imperial one with legions and the chance of some military glory; just as my brother has.’

‘That is what you deserve but unfortunately-’

‘Unfortunately I seem to have incurred the Empress’s displeasure,’ Vespasian interrupted, ‘because my son is friends with her son’s rival.’

‘It does seem a little unreasonable, I’ll admit, if you phrase it in those terms; however, there’s more to it than that, much more. Walk with me, gentlemen.’ Pallas guided them back towards the gates; Vespasian’s lictors fell in behind, unable to precede him as they did not know where they were headed. ‘Obviously we are talking in confidence as only old and trusted friends can?’

Vespasian glanced at his uncle, feeling a twinge of guilt. ‘Of course, Pallas.’

‘Then you’ll spare me a denial when I say that I know that you have both agreed to meet with Narcissus tonight somewhere in secret.’

Vespasian met Pallas’ eye and inclined his head while Gaius blustered something about coercion. All around horns rang out, centurions bellowed and men stamped feet and crashed weapons in unison as the Praetorian Guard turned to march, cohort by cohort, back into their camp to the voluble admiration of the watching women.

‘I don’t blame you for agreeing to meet him; the way that it was put to you made your options seem very limited: a faithful son of Rome cast out by a grudge-bearing woman; lost and friendless, and then Narcissus comes to his aid offering a chance of preferment once again. I’m not going to ask you not to go, quite the reverse as a matter of fact. I want you to go and agree to whatever it is that he wants you to do for him. No doubt he’s moving to push me aside and reinstate himself as Claudius’ most influential advisor. I’ll be interested to know how he plans to go about it, so it should be a fascinating meeting.’

‘How do you know about this, Pallas? I only decided to go this morning.’

‘Then that should answer your question for you.’

‘But Narcissus’ messenger Agarpetus and my slave Hormus are the only people who know; other than my uncle and Magnus, of course.’

‘Do you trust your slave?’

‘Implicitly.’ Vespasian paused and made the obvious assumption. ‘So, Agarpetus must work for you, Pallas?’

‘Not in a way that he would know it; I just have his movements tracked and when he goes somewhere that interests me, like your house this morning for example, I make closer enquiries. Agarpetus is extraordinarily fond of the young lad who shares his bed and discusses much with him. Unfortunately for him that young lad has a greater love of coinage than he has respect for his lover’s privacy. One gold aureus bought me the fact that you were meeting with Narcissus, and when I noticed the look that passed between you both upon your arrival here I knew that I hadn’t been cheated out of my money. As to the time and place: I could guess that it was not going to be in the palace, for obvious reasons, and therefore Narcissus would be wise to use the festivities planned for this evening as cover to help him slip unnoticed through the city. They will still go ahead despite the Emperor pardoning Caratacus. The feast will now be to celebrate Claudius’ mercy in victory rather than his ability to vanquish all enemies.

‘But where Narcissus would be heading through all this joyful celebration, I don’t know for sure. However, if I were him I would choose Magnus’ tavern because his loyalty to you would ensure Narcissus’ complete safety.’

Vespasian could not help but smile. ‘It’s evidently quite pointless trying to have a secret from you; I suppose you know what we are going to discuss even though I have no idea?’

‘That I don’t know but I want you to tell Caenis after the meeting; she’ll be expecting you. She will inform me in the morning.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Then Agrippina will have her way and all that promise that you’ve shown in your career so far will most certainly be lost. Help me in this matter, spy on my enemy, and I will persuade the Emperor and Empress that you are the perfect man for a delicate task that could earn you much credit. Believe me when I say it’s the only chance you’ll get to serve Rome once you step down from the consulship. Agrippina’s mistrust of you is such that this offer is the only thing that I’ll have a chance of getting her to agree to.’

‘What have I done?’

‘It’s what you didn’t do. You didn’t kill Messalina.’

‘But Burrus did.’ Vespasian recalled the night in the Gardens of Lucullus when he had accompanied the then tribune Burrus to execute the faithless Empress.

‘He did, but only after you offered her the honour of suicide. Burrus is a very ambitious man and if he can do someone down at the same time as benefitting himself then he will grasp the opportunity. He has made much of your weakness in the Gardens of Lucullus that night, implying to Agrippina that you showed sympathy to Messalina to the extent that you might not have wished her death. Agrippina takes that as an indication that you would rather she were not empress. She does not forgive sentiments like that, even though I have tried to persuade her otherwise.’

Gaius was outraged. ‘But he offered his sword to Messalina not out of pity but out of a desire to see her do something that she had forced so many others into through jealousy and spite.’

‘Burrus does not frame it in those terms.’

Vespasian shook his head, sighing at the injustice of the matter. ‘And Burrus has done very well out of doing me down to the Empress.’

Pallas inclined his head in agreement. ‘He immediately became the obvious choice for Praetorian prefect.’

‘Very well, Pallas, I will spy for you despite the fact that you have given me no firm guarantee of advancement, just a promise to try to persuade the Emperor and Empress to allow me to perform some vague task.’

‘That is a very sensible decision; and you needn’t worry, I’m sure the Empress will agree to my proposal.’

‘Why, Pallas? If she distrusts me so much how can you manage to get her to agree to my benefit?’

Pallas cocked an eyebrow and gave a rare half-smile. ‘When she hears what I propose you do for Rome, she’ll be most enthusiastic. She will certainly support it because she will fully expect you to die.’