Rome's Lost Son (36 page)

‘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.