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.’