Claudius bit the mushroom in half, slavering on its juices. He swallowed and stuffed the remainder in as Agrippina recharged his cup even though it was not quite empty. A thunderous burp announced the disappearance of the last mouthful; it was quickly washed down with the full contents of the cup. Agrippina immediately refilled it, spilling some over Claudius’ unsteady hand; conversation throughout the room had grown more animated.
Vespasian sipped his wine and nibbled on a mushroom as Gaius, next to him, tucked into their bowl with undisguised relish; Pallas, to his other side, tensed, his hand, white-knuckled, clutching the edge of the couch. Vespasian looked to see what had startled him.
Claudius’ body spasmed, his face a slimed rictus; the contents of his shaking cup slopped over Agrippina who laid a soothing hand on his cheek. The palpitations ceased, his face relaxed and he slumped down, his chest heaving for breath.
Silence spread like a wave throughout the room as people realised that the Emperor had collapsed. Nero stood and looked down at Claudius in wide-eyed, open-mouthed horror with the back of his right hand on his brow like some tragic actor seeing the lifeless body of a lover.
‘My husband has drunk his fill!’ Agrippina announced looking down at the prone form next to her. ‘He has, after all, drunk enough to sink Neptune himself in the last few days.’
Nervous laughter greeted this bald statement of fact, indicating that no one present believed for one moment that it was an alcohol-related incident; however, everyone knew that they would be able to swear to this cover story.
Agrippina turned to an elderly slave woman whom Vespasian recognised as the same woman who had served Claudius his mushrooms. ‘Fetch a bowl and a towel.’ The woman bowed and padded off as Agrippina got to her feet, a picture of unworried calm. ‘I shall have my personal physician attend him to apply an emetic.’ She clapped her hands and four bulky slaves appeared from the shadows around the edge of the room and surrounded Claudius’ couch. ‘I suggest that we curtail our revels; goodnight.’
No one disputed this, although all felt that revels was too strong a word to describe the evening.
‘Not you two,’ Pallas said as Vespasian and Gaius rose to leave, ‘there should be witnesses to the Emperor’s sudden and catastrophic change of health. Stay here and compose your speeches for the Senate tomorrow.’
Vespasian sat down on the edge of the couch and looked around the room; it was emptying of senators apart from six others: Paetus, Mucianus, Corvinus, Galba and the Vitellius brothers. Vespasian now understood why they had been seated together: Pallas had drawn on a cross-section of the Senate to secure Nero into power; a consensual conspiracy with support from all sides would be the most plausible of witnesses to Claudius’ ‘sad and untimely death’.
Gaius evidently realised this too. ‘Oh dear, dear boy, oh dear.’
‘The Emperor has most certainly overconsumed, causing a disproportionate amount of phlegm in his humours; he must vomit some more.’ The bearded Greek physician looked up from his patient satisfied with his diagnosis.
Claudius lay, breathing heavily, on the couch; a pile of vomit, as foul-smelling as it was colourful, was next to his slack mouth.
‘What will you give him, Xenophon?’ Agrippina asked with a voice laden with concern.
‘Nothing; the best thing to do is to tickle the back of his throat.’ Xenophon rummaged in his box and brought out a goose feather; he moved Claudius’ head away from the vomit.
‘Clear that up,’ Agrippina ordered the waiting, elderly female slave.
The woman came forward with a towel and a bowl; she placed the bowl on the couch next to Xenophon and began to scoop up the vomit with the towel.
Xenophon waited, idly playing with the feather, rubbing its tip around the bowl. With the vomit collected the woman placed the full towel into the bowl and took both away.
Xenophon tilted Claudius’ head towards him and opened the jaw. Very delicately he inserted the feather deep down into the throat and wriggled it around; Claudius suddenly convulsed but Xenophon kept the feather in. With a second convulsion the feather and another full slop of vomit were expelled. Nero shrieked as if he had never seen someone vomit before; he put a protective arm around his wife and Otho put a protective arm around him. Claudius seemed to breathe more easily.
Xenophon repeated the procedure and the Emperor vomited again; Nero shrieked again.
‘That should do it,’ Xenophon said. ‘He should be moved to his bed now.’
‘Thank you, doctor,’ Agrippina said as if a huge weight had been lifted. She signalled to the slaves, who lifted Claudius from the couch. As they bore him away he suddenly spasmed a couple of times and cried out in a strangled cry before his arms flopped down beside him, touching the floor.
Agrippina screamed and rushed to his side; Xenophon followed as Vespasian and the rest of the senators watched the dumb-show. Nero howled at the gods, reaching up with his right hand in desperate supplication. Xenophon grabbed Claudius’ wrist, checking for a pulse and then put his fingers to the side of his neck. After a few moments he looked at the Empress and shook his head slowly.
Agrippina drew herself up to her full height and with the most regal expression on her face turned to the witnesses. ‘The Emperor is dead; we shall prepare for the succession.’
Nero stood, his hands half-raised and his eyes staring from beneath arched brows as if miming shock. ‘But Mother, I’m not ready for such a burden.’
Behind her in the shadows the slave woman showed a hint of a smile and slipped away as Burrus and Seneca appeared with an escort of Praetorian Guardsmen. ‘Come, Princeps,’ Burrus said, addressing Nero; a half-smile of triumph flickered briefly across Agrippina’s face.
Nero fell to his knees, his hands clasped between his legs. ‘Oh, to be worthy of that title. Where would you take me?’
Seneca held a hand out and helped Nero up. ‘We shall escort you to the Praetorian camp where you can await the Senate’s confirmation of power.’ He turned to Pallas. ‘Is everything in place?’
Pallas looked at Vespasian and the other senators who had just witnessed the completely deniable public assassination. ‘Yes, Seneca; Galba will summon the Senate soon after dawn and Vespasian will lead their call begging Nero to accept the heavy burden of the Purple.’
Vespasian parted with Gaius at the latter’s front door at the eighth hour of the night and headed, despite the lateness of the hour, to Caenis’ house. He was admitted immediately by the huge Nubian doorman and was surprised to find lamps still burning and the household still up as he walked through the vestibule.
‘The mistress is in her study,’ Caenis’ steward informed him with a deep bow. ‘She said that you were to go straight in.’
Vespasian thanked the man, walked to the last door on the right-hand side of the atrium and opened it; light flooded out.
Caenis looked up from behind her desk; it was covered with scrolls. Crates of scrolls and wax writing tablets were piled all around the room. Without a word she jumped up and ran to him, throwing her arms about his neck as he lifted her off her feet. With their lips glued firmly together he walked her back over to the desk and lay her down, scattering scrolls left and right. Still without saying a word they ripped at each other’s clothing until they were unimpeded and then, with no pause for any intricate delicacies, began the urgent business of pleasuring each other.