‘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.’