Rome's Lost Son

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘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.

  Agrippina, Nero, Pallas and Burrus were now acting as if nothing were amiss as Claudius, having summoned Paelignus to the box to play dice between races, could barely remain upright in his seat and seemed to be in considerable difficulty each time he attempted to cast his throw.

  The crowd, though, took little notice of the inebriate in the imperial box as they urged on the great-hearted equine teams seven times around the spina, the barrier running almost centrally down the middle of the arena upon which were mounted the bronze dolphins that marked the passing of each lap. Twelve races of twelve teams, three from each of the factions, were cheered on that afternoon and the celebrations for the winners were raucous; however, they were loudest for one team, when the neutrals and sycophants in the circus joined the Prince of the Youth in his extravagant poses of joy on the four occasions that his beloved Blues were first to tip the seventh dolphin.

  With theatrical aplomb the dashing, current heir to the Purple presented the huge prizes to the triumphant Blue charioteers, basking in their glory as if he himself had driven the winning team. From the back of the box, the boy with whom Claudius, in his befuddled mind, planned to replace the glamorous poseur looked on unnoticed by the crowd as his rightful position was unashamedly usurped.

  As Nero finished presenting the final prize of the day to the victorious Blues both his mother and Pallas conferred with him. He glanced at Claudius, then over to the senators’ enclosure and then gestured, with studied melodrama, for quiet; almost a quarter of a million people obeyed the request.

  ‘People of Rome,’ he declaimed in a voice that was husky and far from strong. ‘My father,’ he paused and indicated with a flourish the bewildered sot oblivious to what was happening as he struggled to read the dots on the dice of his latest throw, ‘invites you all to feast at his expense this evening. Tables have been set up throughout the city and will be supplied with food and drink for four hours. He wishes you the joy of the Augustalia!’ Standing side-on, Nero held one hand to his heart and extended the other out and up and then turned slowly to take in the entire screaming crowd. With a flick of his wrist and a downward motion of his arm, he silenced them and turned to the senators’ enclosure. ‘As a personal favour to him, my father requests the company of all senators of Praetorian or consular rank to join him for an intimate dinner at the palace. He expects you there at your earliest convenience.’

  Vespasian swore to himself now that his first meeting with Caenis in nearly three years would have to be postponed.

  Nero turned back to the crowd and struck a heroic pose, hands on hips, one foot forward, head held high and eyes gazing valiantly into the distance as his adoptive father was helped to the exit, leaving Paelignus, for once, staring at two large piles of winnings, one silver and the other gold.

  ‘I can’t imagine that he was in any state to make that invitation,’ Gaius observed, watching Claudius being restrained as he lurched to embrace his natural son as he passed.

  ‘No, Uncle,’ Vespasian replied, ‘it was Pallas and Agrippina who made it.’

  Gaius looked over to Agrippina who now held her son’s right arm high in the air as if he had won a race. ‘Oh dear, dear boy, oh dear.’

  CHAPTER XVIIII

  ‘N-N-NONE OFF YOUSH shup-p-p-ported me!’ Claudius muttered, returning to his favourite topic of the evening and pointing a trembling finger around the palace’s vast triclinium, built by Caligula. ‘N-n-none of yoush wanted a cr-cr-cripple for your Emperor.’

  Not one of the hundred or so senators present bothered to gainsay him; instead they picked in embarrassed silence at the delicacies set on the tables before them and tried not to notice the fact that their Emperor had wet himself.

  Agrippina laid a soothing hand on Claudius’ arm and plied him with yet more drink as slaves padded about bringing in fresh dishes and clearing those either empty or cold.

  Nero, on the couch to Claudius’ right, took no notice of his drunken a
doptive father, preferring instead to alternatively feed titbits to his wife and be fed the same by his slightly older friend, Marcus Salvius Otho.

  Vespasian and Gaius reclined to the Emperor’s left, sharing their couch with Pallas; both trying to think of any small talk with which to bridge the uncomfortable near-silence now shrouding the room as Claudius took slow, methodical sips of his refilled cup until it was dry. The feast was in its fourth hour and no one, apart from Nero, could have claimed to be enjoying themselves.

  ‘Where’s Narcissus?’ Vespasian eventually asked, turning to Pallas.

  ‘He’s gone to his estate near Veii to try to help relieve his gout.’

  ‘Voluntarily?’

  ‘Agrippina did suggest that it might be very good for his health, if you take my meaning, as Magnus would say.’

  ‘Indeed he would and I do.’

  Vespasian cast his eyes around the sombre gathering of Rome’s élite as Claudius slurred on, spiralling down into introspective self-pity as only a man well into his cups can do. Again he noticed Galba was next to the Vitellius brothers, reclining on the same couch, all three of them looking openly disgusted at Claudius’ appearance. As Vespasian began to wonder again just what Galba and the Vitellii were doing together, a pair of pale eyes, which seemed vaguely familiar, caught his gaze; they belonged to a huge man reclining on the couch placed next to Galba’s. The man raised his cup and drank to Vespasian; not wanting to appear rude, Vespasian returned the toast unable to work out where he knew the face from. His hair, clipped short, and clean-shaven face accentuated a vast, bony head, supported by a bull neck that in turn protruded from a powerful torso.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Vespasian asked Pallas out of the corner of his mouth as he lowered his cup.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Pallas looked up. ‘Oh, don’t you recognise him? Try adding long hair and moustaches.’

  It took Vespasian a couple of moments. ‘Caratacus?’

  ‘Tiberius Claudius Caratacus, citizen of Rome, recently awarded the rank of praetor and now looking no different from any other Romanised barbarian.’

  Caratacus smiled over to him as the recognition of his old enemy spread over Vespasian’s face.

  ‘He’s a particular favourite of Nero’s,’ Pallas explained, whispering. ‘He likes to have him around to remind everybody of his magnanimity in recommending his pardon. Caratacus is also—’

  The arrival of another course interrupted the Greek as Claudius, roused from his melancholy by the smell, blurted, ‘Ah, mushrooms! At lasht something I can trusht.’ He downed the contents of his cup in celebration and then held it out to Agrippina to refill.

  The company laughed sycophantically at the poor attempt at wit and then busied themselves in making appreciative noises in anticipation of the tasty dish. Conversation suddenly escalated as all began discourses on the safe topic of mushrooms and their preparation.

  An elderly female slave placed a large bowl, with care, on the table in front of the Emperor and Empress, adjusting its angle slightly once it was down. Claudius looked at it with wine-stained drool oozing from his mouth as Agrippina dipped her fingers in and took a small specimen from her side of the dish and savoured its aroma. ‘They’re good, my dear,’ she said before placing it in her mouth.

  Claudius watched his wife eat, his eyes struggling to focus.

  Agrippina swallowed and smiled at her husband. ‘Delicious.’

  Claudius grabbed one from his side of the bowl and chewed on it with gusto as Agrippina helped herself to another; all around the room people tucked into the dish and the atmosphere relaxed now that the Emperor seemed to be more content.

  Claudius heaved out a huge belch and then took another couple of slugs of wine before choosing the largest and juiciest of the mushrooms on his side of the bowl and held it up to Agrippina, slurring what Vespasian took to be a phallic joke, judging by the Empress’s dutifully coy reaction. Claudius put the head to his lips and licked it suggestively and then pushed it slowly into his mouth before withdrawing it. Uncharacteristically, Agrippina simpered, but her eyes remained hard, focused on the mushroom. She rubbed Claudius’ thigh and whispered something to him; her mouth then pouted and her head tilted in the affirmative with the promise of a treat to come.

  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.