Rome's Lost Son

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘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.’

  The muscled, effeminate freedman fell to his knees and with practised skill very quickly coaxed an erection from his patron. Nero gazed down at it with love. ‘Oh that it were not mine but belonged to another so that I could possess such beauty.’

  Titus struggled but Vespasian held on to his son as Doryphorus licked Britannicus’ anus, moistening it, before Nero, with surprising tenderness, eased his way in to him; Britannicus made no sound.

  All in the room not involved stood and watched the act, transfixed, their faces registering horror as Nero raped his stepbrother with growing rhythm and delight; the rightful heir to Augustus’ line pounded in public as if he were no more than a dockside whore-boy earning a sesterces. Tigellinus slathered as he held the boy down, staring into his face, and occasionally looking up at Nero and grinning maniacally with sadistic pleasure.

  With no more than a grunt and a slight shudder, Nero came to a climax and then sighed deep with contentment. Pulling himself free of Britannicus and slapping a buttock at the same time, he looked around the room, beaming. ‘That’s how to treat a boy. Let’s eat.’

  Nero licked his fingers and then looked at Pallas, frowning, as if recollecting a dim memory. ‘Of course! I was in the process of punishing you for fucking Mother.’ He took another quail from the platter before him and pulled a leg free. He turned to Seneca, reclining to his right on the couch. ‘You claim to have an eye for appropriate justice – what do you think his punishment should be?’

  Seneca cleared his throat and wiped his lips to give himself a few moments’ thinking time. ‘Princeps, in our long hours of study together over the years I have tried to steer you on the path of justice rather than er … shall we say chaos? Yes, chaos will do admirably. We cannot have chaos, and chaos comes from injustice. Pallas here has served both you and your father well, for that he deserves reward. However, he has also, how should I put it? Compromised, that’s it, compromised himself with your mother, and for that he deserves punishment. So from those two conflicting outcomes how can we find justice?’

  As Seneca expanded on his theme, Vespasian marvelled that Nero seemed to be listening enrapt rather than struggling to remain focused like the rest of Seneca’s audience. Only Pallas, next to him, remained fixed on the discourse as his life was weighed and fate decided. His face remained outwardly placid but the slightest rubbing of his index finger on his cup betrayed a deep anxiety in one normally so at ease.

  Caratacus, to Vespasian’s other side, sipped his wine, paying no attention to the speech, while Titus and Britannicus both ate methodically and without enjoyment as if just marking time until the whole ordeal was over. Agrippina smouldered on Nero’s left, shooting venomous looks at the speaker.

  ‘And so, bearing in mind all of these arguments,’ Seneca carried on, drawing to a conclusion, ‘including the fact that it was Pallas himself who recommended Narcissus’ death in similar circumstances, I suggest, Princeps, that you show a degree of mercy; banish him, put him—’

  ‘I decide the sentence,’ Nero snapped, raising his finger in warning at Seneca. ‘If I agree with the argument.’ Now he went right back to the posing that had seemed to have been forgotten as he had allowed the innate violence within him to run free. After much imitation of a man deep in thought he resurfaced. ‘I shall be merciful, Pallas.’

  Vespasian felt the Greek relax; his index finger stilled.

  ‘You are banished from Rome but may live on one of your estates close to the city. You may keep your wealth as a reward for your good service to my father but should I need money you will always lend it to me, interest free. However, as punishment for your crimes with my mother you shall play host to her for half of every month. In other words for half the year she shall not be with me, annoying me, but with you.’

  Vespasian choked back an involuntary guffaw at the mad logic of the sentence as Pallas got to his feet.

  ‘Princeps, you are just and merciful and I submit to your will.’ With a bow to Nero while completely ignoring Agrippina, who was still staring at her son in horror, Pallas left the room, his career in Rome over.

  Nero brightened as the Greek’s footsteps receded. ‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, celebrating my brother’s coming of age. We shall have a toast; charge our cups!’

  Female slaves who had been waiting in the shadows busied themselves making sure that each of the guests had sufficient before retreating back whence they came.

  ‘To my brother’s birthday tomorrow!’ Nero shouted, before draining his wine.

  All the guests followed his example with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Britannicus, his eyes glazed with remembrance of public buggery, took no more than a mouthful.

  But that was enough to make Nero smile as the boy swallowed. ‘Which he will never see,’ he added, watching Britannicus intently.

  Vespasian’s innards lurched and he looked at Britannicus who broke into a cold smile of acceptance as he threw another gulp down his gullet, his eyes fixed on Nero, defiance and hatred in them. Behind him a slave woman was staring with the same intensity as she had stared at Claudius while he died; the woman was rewarded by a sudden spasm. Titus grabbed Britannicus’ cup from his hand as the spasm repeated, confused by what was happening to his friend who now struggled but failed to draw breath; a rattle emanated from his constricted throat. Titus gaped at him, his face tensed in horror as realisation dawned. Five, ten, fifteen heartbeats the ghastly agony continued as Britannicus’ eyes bulged and his lips blued, twitching as they struggled to form a word; his hand grasped Titus’ wrist and pushed the poisoned cup up towards his mouth. His lips resolved into a final, twisted smile.

  Once more for Vespasian, time’s chariot slowed and he felt himself rising as he watched Britannicus slump slowly back, his hand releasing its grip. His heart pounded slow and bass in his ears as Titus stared at the contents of the cup, registering just what it was; he looked down at his friend’s lifeless eyes, fixed upon him, before casting Nero a glare of unvarnished loathing. Vespasian screamed, inchoate, as he tried to fly across the room, watching Titus’ hand rise even further and the cup slowly approaching his lips. He could see it tilt and the wine within it touch the rim as Titus’ mouth opened. The cup rested on his lower lip and the poison began to flow onto his tongue; Vespasian was sure that he saw his son’s throat contract with a swallow as his right hand smashed the cup away from Titus’ mouth and time cranked back up to her unrelenting speed almost in mockery of how long Titus had to live.

  ‘An antidote!’ Vespasian screamed at the slave woman, vaguely aware of laughter behind him. ‘What is the antidote, woman?’ He grabbed Titus, who was staring down into the pained and dead eyes of Britannicus.

  The woman stood motionless, looking towards Nero.

  ‘Two for the price of one, Locusta,’ Nero managed to say through his mirth, ‘very good.’

  Vespasian screamed again for the antidote as Caratacus grabbed Locusta by the throat and lifted her, shrieking, off her feet; the jug she carried crashed to the ground. ‘Obey me, woman, and nobody else, for it is in my hands that your miserable life lies. The antidote.’

  Locusta reached into a bag hanging from her waist and brought out a phial; Caratacus took it and threw her away to land with a cracking of bones on the hard mosaic floor.

  Titus spasmed as Vespasian grabbed the antidote, ripping the cork out with his teeth. He slammed his son’s head down onto the still chest of Britannicus and tipped the
contents of the phial down his open throat. Once empty he threw it away, pinched Titus’ nose and pressed his mouth shut; there was another spasm but then he swallowed. Vespasian looked into Titus’ eyes willing him to live, as Nero’s laughter still echoed in his ears; no one else made a sound apart from Locusta groaning over a broken arm. Titus’ eyes widened in pain, the pupils so dilated there was no colour in them, just black and white. There was another spasm but weaker this time and his face relaxed.

  Caratacus pulled Vespasian to his feet. ‘Lift him; we must get him out of here.’

  Vespasian did as he was told, unthinkingly knowing that was the right thing to do.

  ‘Father?’ Titus mumbled.

  ‘You’ll be all right; I knocked the cup away before you drank too much and you’ve had the whole antidote.’

  ‘Who said you can leave?’ Nero shouted, his laughter dying.

  ‘With your permission I’m taking them into my care, Princeps,’ Caratacus said, helping to lift Titus. ‘As you showed mercy to me so I beg you show mercy to this son of Rome. Rome’s lost one son already today; do not make her lose a second.’

  Without waiting for an answer Vespasian hauled Titus to his feet and, with the help of his one-time mortal enemy, dragged his son from the room, away from the Golden Emperor.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Between Vespasian’s consulship in the last two months of AD 51 and him becoming governor of Africa in AD 63 we know nothing about him. I therefore had a simple choice: skip twelve years – my original intention when conceiving the series – or recount his probable life during that time living in semi-retirement on his estates – dull in the extreme – or insert him into events of the period. Having chosen the third option I once again based the fiction on the writings of Tacitus, Suetonius, Cassius Dio, Josephus and the Bible.

  Sabinus was the Governor of Moesia, Macedonia and Thracia during this time.

  At the beginning of his biography of Domitian, Suetonius tells us that he was born in Pomegranate Street on the Quirinal Hill.

  Tacitus tells us in his history of AD 50 that Caratacus was captured and sent to Rome. However, he also says that he had resisted Rome for eight years, which would place his capture in 51. Seeing as Tacitus often deals with events away from Rome in two-year chunks, it is entirely possible that Caratacus may have come to Rome and delivered his famous speech when Vespasian was consul. As to the speech, I mixed elements of Tacitus’ version and Cassius Dio’s shorter one.

  Tacitus tells of Britannicus insulting Nero by referring to him as ‘Domitius’ and how it caused Sosibius to be executed.

  Corbulo would have been in Rome at that time as he transferred from being governor of Germania Inferior to Asia.

  I have combined three examples from Suetonius of how Claudius behaved in court to make the one scene that Vespasian witnesses with Corbulo, so, unfortunately, it’s not that far from the reality.

  Lydia of Thyatira was the first person baptised in Europe by St Paul; the ceremony happened in the River Gangites at Philippi. Her being tried by Sabinus is my fiction.

  Jesus referring to Gentiles as dogs is recorded in both Mark 7:24–30 and also Matthew 15:21–28 in which he also states: ‘I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel.’ Make of that what you will.

  The story of Paul casting out the demon from the slave girl in Philippi and annoying her owner is taken from Acts, as is the earthquake and Paul’s insistence on an apology for the way he had been treated.

  Tryphaena had abdicated at Caligula’s request and removed herself to Cyzicus where she was a rich and influential part of the community. King Polemon of Pontus was her brother and Radamistus was her nephew; she was also a cousin of both Agrippina and Nero. Her interest in achieving power for Radamistus and Nero, therefore, is historically feasible but is my fiction. The beginnings of the Roman–Parthian war did start off with Radamistus’ invasion and usurpation of the throne followed by his murder in the manner described of Mithridates, his father-in-law, and his sons. Julius Paelignus was the procurator of Cappadocia at the time and Tacitus describes him as ‘contemptible both for his idle intellect and his physical deformity’, adding that he was a friend of Claudius who ‘added amusement to his leisure time by fraternising with buffoons’. He did invade Armenia with auxiliaries but ‘pillaged the allies more than the enemy’. He also transferred his allegiance to Radamistus and encouraged him in his kingly ambitions.

  The war gradually escalated and eventually became the conflict in which Corbulo made his name despite the impetuousness of the other commander, Lucius Junius Paetus.

  I have taken the liberty of placing Tigranocerta where I have because it suited the narrative. There are at least four possible sites for the town and I just chose the most convenient, which, I believe, is a fiction writer’s prerogative!

  Arbela, modern day Erbil in Iraq, is considered to be one of the longest continuously inhabited cities in the world. Izates bar Monobazes was the King of Adiabene at the time and had recently been converted to Judaism by Ananias, according to Josephus. However, it has been argued by Robert Eisenman in his book James the Brother of Jesus that this Ananias was the same man as Ananias of Damascus who baptised St Paul. If this was the case then Josephus was mistaken and Izates was not strictly Jewish but had been baptised into an early form of Christianity as preached by Jesus’ Jewish disciples.

  The audience chamber in Ctesiphon is based on the ruins of a later, Sassanid, structure; however, I imagine that the King of Kings would have conducted his business in a chamber equally as impressive.

  Malichus was the King of the Nabataean Arabs and did have a problem with Claudius taking Damascus back into the Empire, it having originally been given to his predecessor by Caligula.

  Felix was the procurator of Judaea at the time and was well known for his harshness in dealing with the local populace.

  Claudius did address the Senate a couple of days before he died on the subject of recognising Britannicus as his heir; he had also let drop remarks, while drunk, that it was his fate to suffer and then punish the sexual misconduct of his wives. This combination probably led to his death, which, according to Tacitus, was achieved first with a mushroom and then by the doctor, Xenophon, finishing him off with a poisoned feather.

  Nero’s speech to the Senate is taken from Suetonius and was written by Seneca, according to Cassius Dio.

  Tacitus tells us that Nero sexually abused Britannicus and also poisoned him using Locusta’s potions. Suetonius relates in his biography of Titus that he was next to his friend Britannicus when it happened and tried to take his own life with the same poisoned cup but failed and became very ill for a while instead. Perhaps this explains his curtailed life. Britannicus was murdered the day before his fourteenth birthday.

  Narcissus did have gout at the time and was executed soon after Claudius’ assassination. I brought it forward for the sake of the narrative. We don’t know what happened to Callistus but he was dead by the beginning of Nero’s reign.

  Tacitus tells us of Nero’s first password: ‘excellent mother’. Cassius Dio relates the episode when Agrippina tried to mount Nero’s dais and receive the Armenian embassy as if she were his equal. His refusing her was probably the beginning of their split.

  My thanks, as always, to my agent, Ian Drury at Sheil Land Associates, for going in to bat on my behalf and to Gaia Banks and Marika Lysandrou in the foreign rights department. To everyone at Corvus/Atlantic for the great effort that they have put in to promoting my books, a big thank you. Thanks also to my editor, Maddie West, and my copy-editor, Tamsin Shelton, for all their hard work on the manuscript to turn it from my ramblings into something comprehensible. Congratulations to Sara O’Keeffe on the birth of Ethne. Finally, thank you and farewell to Toby Mundy, to whom I am greatly indebted for showing such faith in me, and I wish you all the best in the future; and then welcome to Will Atkinson who takes over from Toby at Atlantic.

  Vespasian’s story will continue in The Furies of R
ome.