As Titus came to the end of his prayer, Vespasian dismissed the thought from his mind as irrelevant: no one could ever know what sort of emperor Britannicus would have made.
Rome was in a festive mood, ready to celebrate the Augustalia. Wreaths of flowers and laurels adorned the many statues of Augustus throughout the city and crowds of loyal subjects of the Julio-Claudians were waiting to give thanks for the founder of the dynasty’s victorious return from the Civil War in the East, sixty-three years previously. All were heading for the Porta Capena, the gate that led out to the Via Appia. There, in the Temple of Fortuna Redux on the slope of the Caelian Hill just above the gate and in the shadow of the Appian Aqueduct, they would watch their Emperor, in his role as the Flamian Augustales, lead the prayers and sacrifices to his deified predecessor. But this was just a prelude to the main events of the day: the racing and the feasting.
‘You needn’t worry any more, Vespasian,’ Britannicus said as they headed down the Quirinal Hill with Vespasian’s and Gaius’ clients following in attendance. ‘Titus has nothing to fear from his association with me now that he has become a man.’
Vespasian failed to see how the difference in rank would protect his son walking next to him, upright and proud in his toga virilis. ‘Agrippina is a spiteful woman.’
‘She is; but Seneca, Domitius’ and my tutor, is not a spiteful man.’ Britannicus was evidently still unable to refer to Nero by his adoptive name.
‘But what power does he have?’ Gaius asked as Magnus and his erstwhile brothers, beating a path for the company through the holiday crowds, slowed in the face of the bottleneck at the entrance to Augustus’ Forum, clogged with citizens laying small gifts at the feet of his statues.
Britannicus looked up at Gaius. ‘It’s not so much that he has power, it’s that he has influence and he’s using that influence to ensure that he will retain the luxuries that accompany it for as long as possible. Seneca knows Domitius’ character only too well; who could fail to spot his excesses?’
‘Your father, for a start,’ Titus pointed out.
‘My father’s an idiot and will be dead by this time tomorrow because of it.’ Britannicus spoke without a trace of emotion. ‘But Seneca has managed to persuade Domitius that if he wants to rule for the rest of his natural life, rather than just five years like Caligula did, then he will need to restrain himself when it comes to his subjects’ lives, wives and assets. If he does so then he’ll be free to live a life of artistic indolence, seeing as he’s starting to persuade himself that his mediocre artistic talent is the greatest ever bestowed upon any man. Meanwhile, Seneca, Pallas and Burrus take the policy decisions that they are all far more qualified to make rather than a seventeen-year-old youth who’s not allowed to let go of his mother’s skirts because he is her only remaining political asset and is tied to her by incest.’ The party moved on again as the entrance to Augustus’ Forum cleared; all around, people were shouting praise to the man who had brought about the longest period of peace free from civil strife that had been known for more than a hundred and fifty years. ‘When Domitius has me murdered the deed will only be acceptable if it’s seen to be for the good of Rome. But if he kills Titus or any other of Rome’s sons along with the one already lost then he will be seen as someone who acted out of spite, like his mother, rather than someone who acted, reluctantly, out of necessity. Seneca will make sure that Domitius understands that; so Titus is safe.’
‘Put like that, you may be right, dear boy,’ Gaius said, evidently forgetting exactly who he was talking to. ‘But how can we believe that Agrippina will have the same discipline?’
‘Because she has no hold on power other than through Domitius and, although it will stick in her gorge to do so, she too will understand the need for restraint. After I’m dead, she will have done her job securing her son in power and Domitius will have no use for her; she will have to be very careful about what demands she makes of him. If she becomes too dominant then Domitius might just realise that he doesn’t need her any more.’
Vespasian felt an admiration for the youth who could talk so dispassionately about his inevitable death and seemed unafraid to face it. ‘Why don’t you run?’
‘Where to? Some stinking tribe outside the Empire? Or perhaps to Parthia? The first thing anyone would do when they find out my true identity is sell me back to Domitius and then he’ll be well within his rights to have me executed for treason.’ Britannicus shrugged, looking resigned. ‘No, my defiance is willingly accepting the lot served to me by my fool of a father. I take consolation in the facts that he will die before me and that Narcissus, the man who ordered the execution of my mother, will also be waiting on the other side of the Styx when I arrive.’
Vespasian could see the depressing logic of Britannicus’ argument: however he looked at it, he was doomed. But maybe he was right about Titus. Now that he was back in Rome, Vespasian decided that the person he needed to cultivate was the man who would hold the reins of the next emperor. ‘Do you think, Uncle, that it would be beneath our family’s dignity for me to become Seneca’s client?’
‘Without a doubt, dear boy; but when did that ever stop anyone from trying to secure their position?’
Vespasian, for the first time, found some enjoyment in watching the chariot teams hurl themselves around the sand track of the Circus Maximus; he even found himself willing on the Greens — although this did not translate into actual cheering. He began to look forward, with genuine anticipation, to the prospect of seeing his team of beautiful Arabs leaving the rest of the field behind as they stormed to victory, but more than that, he was looking forward to seeing Caenis that evening. Her naked form came to his mind, her smile enticing him with the prospect of an exhaustingly adventurous time in her bedchamber. However, his daydreaming was regularly interrupted by the almost surreal goings-on in the imperial box, just ten paces to his right.
Claudius had arrived in a litter at the Temple of Fortuna Redux and this had not been solely because his legs were weak; as he dismounted it had been obvious to all that he was still drunk — drunker, even, than he had been the day before. The shame of his fellow priests — Galba’s in particular — had been plain for all to see as he slurred his way through the prescribed prayers and then botched the sacrifice so that blood spurted all over his toga in what everybody knew was the worst of omens. However, those senators who had been present in the House the day before were not at all surprised that he should be the subject of a portent of death. Nero, now almost fully grown since Vespasian had last seen him, his sunset hair radiant and now matched by a downy beard, had stood on the temple steps making extravagant gestures of concern and alarm for his adoptive father. He had ostentatiously mouthed every word of the prayers as if coaching Claudius through them; each time the Emperor managed to complete a whole line without a slur or a stutter, the Prince of the Youth made a show of breathing sighs of relief that the gullible in the crowd — a large majority — took to be heartfelt and genuine.
Once the rites had been completed Claudius had been, almost literally, scooped up by Pallas and Burrus, placed back in his litter and equipped with sufficient of the juice of Bacchus to last him for the four-hundred-pace journey to the Circus Maximus. Despite the shortness of the trip the jug had been empty upon his arrival, but Agrippina, awaiting him in the imperial box, had seen to his refreshment requirements as soon as he entered and had since hardly stopped feeding her drink-sodden husband wine of a very undiluted nature.