Of that, everybody in the room was sure; even Narcissus, who now stared at his patron with undisguised horror. Pallas, next to him, had his face set resolute; his timetable had just been brought forward considerably.
With a quick glance between them, the two freedmen jumped up from their chairs and walked from the Curia, one on the left-hand side, the other on the right, so that they left at the same time but not together. Claudius watched them go, twitching in confusion, and then got to his feet, steadied himself on the arm of his chair while taking deep breaths and then lurched out after them.
The senators, pleased finally to be able to do something that could not be construed as being for or against the Emperor’s announcement, got to their feet and feted Claudius’ departure with a mighty chant of ‘Hail Caesar!’, each convinced that this was the last time they would see this emperor in the Curia.
As Claudius left the building the Junior Consul brought the session to a close as no further business could possibly be contemplated that day, for the priority of the senators would now be securing their positions during the transfer of power.
‘Extraordinary,’ Gaius said as he folded his chair. ‘He must have drunk more of the new vintage than he poured in libations this morning; it’s the only explanation for such suicidal behaviour.’
‘He was never a politician at the best of times, Uncle, let alone when drunk,’ Vespasian pointed out. ‘He won’t realise what he’s done until he feels the poison burning in his throat. I suppose we’d better spend the rest of the day writing our speeches in praise of Nero.’
They joined the stream of senators making for the doors and, like their peers, struck up an enthusiastic, but inane, conversation about matters of little worth as if nothing of import had occurred in the Senate House that day.
‘I imagine you know why I wanted to talk with you, Lucius,’ Vespasian said, seated at his desk in the tablinum early the following morning. Hormus stood in his normal position at his shoulder, taking notes.
‘Yes, patronus; Magnus has told me all about the team,’ Lucius replied, ‘and I know for sure that the Green faction-master would be very interested in seeing them and if he approves then he would happily take all five into the Greens’ stables. He has a similar arrangement with a couple of other private owners.’
‘At what cost?’
‘I’m afraid that I don’t know anything about the financial side of it, sir; I’m just in charge of the stables’ security.’
Vespasian studied his client for a few moments; he was a few years older than Vespasian. Lucius’ hard twenty-five years in the IIII Scythica and then life as hired muscle for the Green racing faction had taken its tolclass="underline" he was battered and bald but still brawny. He owed Vespasian his life when, as a military tribune with the IIII Scythica, his patron had come up with a face-saving way of only executing one of the two men charged with striking a superior officer during a disturbance in the camp; Lucius had been the lucky man to draw the long straw. ‘Who is the Green faction-master at the moment?’
Lucius’ surprise showed on his face. ‘Eusebius, sir.’
‘I don’t take any interest in racing,’ Vespasian said, explaining his ignorance. ‘Take a message to Eusebius: tell him I would like a meeting and ask him when would be convenient.’
‘Yes, patronus; I’ll have your answer at tomorrow’s salutio.’
‘Thank you, Lucius. You will stay and witness my son’s coming of age?’
‘I’m honoured, sir. And may I say how good it is to see you back in Rome; I never once doubted that you would return.’
Vespasian inclined his head to his client, thanking him and dismissing him with one gesture. ‘It would seem that he still shows gratitude; he attended my uncle almost every day while I was away. Let me have a look at Ewald’s list again.’
Hormus passed the list of clients who had drifted away during Vespasian’s time in the East.
Vespasian perused it and then handed it back to his slave. ‘Seven of them turned up this morning, begging forgiveness, which I was happy to grant; that just leaves one: Laelius. I cannot abide ingratitude, Hormus.’
‘Especially ingratitude to a man as generous as yourself, master,’ Hormus said with genuine feeling.
‘Compose a letter to my brother; tell him the situation and have Sabinus cancel the chickpea contract with the ungrateful shit. Also, if his son is still serving as a military tribune in one of his legions, ask Sabinus to send him home immediately without giving him a reason; that should give Laelius a lesson in gratitude.’
Hormus gave a grim smile. ‘Yes, that should do it, master.’
‘I’ll sign the letter after Titus’ ceremony. Also, send a note to Caenis to tell her I’ll be with her at dusk.’ Vespasian got to his feet. ‘And find out to whom Laelius has now pledged his dubious loyalty.’
Hormus brandished Ewald’s list. ‘It says that here, master.’ He ran his finger down the names. ‘Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus.’
Vespasian took a fold of his toga, draped it over his head and then bowed to the lararium, the altar where the images of the lares domestici, the household gods, were kept. He then turned to face his son standing next to him. ‘This is the last time you will be addressed as a boy.’ He lifted the leather thong of the bulla over Titus’ head; this was the phallic charm that the boy had worn since birth to ward off the evil-eye. ‘I decree that from now on, my son, you, Titus Flavius Vespasianus, are a man. Take up a man’s duty, dignity and honour and go out into the world and thrive in your own right to your greater glory and to the glory of the house of Flavius.’
Titus bowed his head in acknowledgement of his father’s wishes.
Vespasian then placed the bulla on the altar and arranged around it five small clay statuettes that he took from a cupboard next to it. He stretched his arms out, palms upwards, muttered a short prayer, and then filled a shallow bowl with wine from the altar jug. Standing with the bowl in his right hand he poured a libation over the altar in front of the largest of the figures, the lar familiaris, which represented the founder of the family. He then motioned his son to join him next to the altar and gave him a sip of wine, before draining the rest himself and setting down the bowl.
Removing the toga from his head he turned to address the crowd of clients watching the ceremony, Gaius, Magnus with three of his erstwhile brethren, Tigran, Sextus and Cassandros, amongst them; Flavia sat before them, tears in her eyes, with her arm around their daughter — Domitian had been judged too ill-behaved to attend — and Britannicus stood next to them. ‘I ask all you here to witness my decision to grant adult status to my eldest son.’
There was a chorus affirming that was indeed the case.
Vespasian then signalled to Hormus, who stepped forward with a plain white toga virilis, the sign of an adult male citizen, and began to drape it around Titus. When Hormus was done, Titus covered his head with a fold of his toga and, standing in the prayer position with his palms turned to the heavens, pledged himself to the house of Flavius and to its guardian god, Mars.
As the prayer was recited, Vespasian looked over to Britannicus; tears were streaming down his long face, inherited from his father, as he watched his friend complete the ceremony that, even at his young age he still had the maturity to realise, he would never, for political reasons, be allowed to celebrate.
Vespasian wondered for a moment what sort of emperor the doomed boy would have made and then remembered that he was the product of a fool and a power-mad whore. Britannicus was evidently no fool and so therefore, unless nature was going to be completely overruled, once he fully matured sexually he would probably display all the licentiousness of his mother, Messalina; perhaps he even had the potential of making Caligula look like a man with nothing more than a mildly overactive libido.