The scream of the crowd changed in key and the mood among the Imperial family lifted. ‘Looks like it’s reaching our end soon,’ said Castor. ‘There’ll be something to see in a minute.’
‘Why can’t they run it with more pace?’ complained Livilla, his pinch-faced wife. ‘It’ll be hours before we see Germanicus yet.’
‘Why don’t you lie down awhile, Livilla?’ Agrippina’s eyes were on the Via Nova where the procession would appear. She held a secret, a quiet joy that made her reckless this morning. ‘We don’t want the excitement weakening you.’
Livilla’s hypochondria was known to everyone in the family except Livilla.
‘I might do that,’ said Livilla, ‘or perhaps I could have the slaves bring my litter here and I could lie down in that while they hold it near the balcony’s edge?’
‘You will not,’ was the pronouncement from the matron to whom the conduct of the Triumph mattered most. She was Germanicus’s and Livilla’s revered mother, Antonia.
Agrippina gave her motherin-law a little squeeze around the waist.
‘You’ll stand there with dignity, Livilla,’ Antonia continued, ‘or I’ll have you nailed in place to ensure you remain upright.’
Castor guffawed, and Livilla could have stabbed him for finding her mother’s words so hilarious. ‘I hope I’m permitted a cup of watered wine at least?’ she said with a wounded tone. A slave satisfied this request and Livilla took an insect sip of it before putting it aside. ‘Far too bitter. Don’t worry about me.’
‘Yes you are, and no we won’t,’ Agrippina said quietly to herself. Her secret warmed her.
The crowd’s roar changed key again, high and loud enough to hurt the ears. The Triumph’s standard-bearers reached the Forum. ‘At last the head!’ shouted Castor. ‘What do you think, Claudius?’
Germanicus’s blood brother, Claudius, the man who described this scene to me much later, was feeling ill. He expected no sympathy, however, and nor would he receive any. He was a cripple – born as one, not earned in war. ‘Very fine, very fine,’ he said as he squinted at the distant bearers. ‘There are the eagles for Germanicus’s First and the Twentieth – but where are Varus’s recovered ones?’
‘They’ll have a float of their own, you fool.’ Antonia had no patience for anything her crippled son said.
‘Indeed, Mother, I’m sure you’re right.’ Claudius picked up Livilla’s unwanted wine.
The Triumph progressed through the Forum and wove its way to its termination point behind the Temple of Divine Julius Caesar. Behind the standard-bearers – and representing their German legions – came the finest men from the First and the Twentieth, as chosen by their fellow legionaries.
‘Look at the randy old goat!’ cried Castor. Even Antonia was amused. Following the finest men came a gaudy statue of Jupiter reclining, as if preparing to dine, carved from soft wood and tricked up with paint to look like a jolly pantomime player. Jupiter needed sixteen slaves to support him and was a big hit with the masses. Children threw cakes at him.
‘When will they pitch that old termites’ nest into the rubbish pit?’ said Tiberius, speaking his first words in some time. ‘They’ve been trucking it out since Hannibal got the chop.’
The Imperial family knew their First Citizen’s displeasure well enough to treat this aside as wit. They all laughed heartily, except for Agrippina. Tiberius turned to her, expecting a lack of regard for his humour, which he would freeze from her with a stare. Instead, he caught a flash of something else in her eyes – concealment – before she nodded and looked to the ground. This unsettled him.
Behind the gaudy god came the ‘spoils of war’, precious items supposedly looted from the glittering German cities of gold. It was useful that Rome’s knowledge of her Empire was so limited. Germany didn’t have cities, let alone gold. The trinkets were from Tiberius’s own vaults but, again, the crowd loved it.
Agrippina stood close to her motherin-law. She was always sure of affection from Castor and from crippled Claudius too, but Antonia was the family member she felt warmest near. Nothing of the kind did she feel from Tiberius, who had chilled her like stone since the day she’d watched him smother her baby brother with a cushion. But with Antonia near, Agrippina convinced herself she was protected.
‘There should be Triumphs given to those who think up Triumphs,’ Antonia whispered.
The matron was well onto her. ‘I thought up nothing,’ said Agrippina, feigning innocence for all who were eavesdropping. ‘How would a woman know what to suggest?’
‘A woman didn’t know what to devise at my late husband’s Triumph either,’ said Antonia. ‘Fortunately, I had the good sense to pound my ideas into him before he met with the marshals. Germanicus will be celebrated for a most entertaining spectacle today.’
Agrippina treasured the notion that Antonia saw positive parallels with her own famous marriage. ‘My reward is seeing Rome respond well to the Triumpher.’
‘Then I think you’ll be pleased.’
Agrippina valued Antonia’s approval.
Bullock-pulled floats now entered the Forum carrying representations of Germanicus’s great success, portrayed by actors with scenery and props. The bridge at Vetera was the first recreated, with no trace of Agrippina or Little Boots, but guarded by loyal boys and veterans, waiting for their commander’s return. Divinity rumours had been crushed.
The next float held the Teutoberg village, looking more impregnable than Troy, with Germanicus laying siege to it like Achilles. More floats depicted non-existent battles, invented capitulations and false defeats. Contracted from the Theatre of Marcellus, the float-masters descended to lowbrow tastes for the final representations, to roars of delight from the masses. The penultimate display depicted German maidens submitting themselves to lusty legionaries in the hope of bearing Roman sons. ‘Honour me!’ they cried in blonde horsehair wigs. Another float depicted wifeless German chieftains, including an ugly Arminius, engaged in lonely sodomy. The Imperial family enjoyed these jokes as much as the mob – especially Castor and Claudius, who yelled encouragement to the buggers. This final float was signal to the Oxhead slaves to serve refreshments while the less entertaining sacrificial bulls picked up the parade.
It was almost eighteen months since Tiberius’s return communiqué had been received, and Agrippina had found a lot of time to prepare herself for the realities of this occasion. The sense of disgrace had lessened, at least for her, and the six months they had already enjoyed back in Rome had shown her how popular her husband was – and because of him, how popular she and the children were also. Agrippina added to that groundswell by producing another child, her second daughter, Drusilla. While she knew that the Triumph was little better than a Plautine farce, still Agrippina awaited the climax keenly. This was something special, the one thing that would be long remembered.
At the Servian Wall, three of Germanicus’s children were nervous. The fourth was bawling and the fifth nagged incessantly for his role to begin – Little Boots.
‘We’ll move when the lictors in front of us start moving,’ said Germanicus to his youngest son. The bawl of the infant Drusilla and the noise from the crowd beyond the gate was deafening. ‘These things can’t be rushed, you know.’
‘But why do we get pushed right back here, almost at the end, Father?’ whined Little Boots. ‘We should be up the front.’
‘Have you no sense of theatre? The people will love us all the more for waiting.’
The two older sons were derisive of five-year-old Little Boots’s childishness. They knew how Triumphs were meant to run. Eleven-year-old Nero was already tall and strong, the fair hair from his mother’s side shining gold in the sun. His eyes were wide with all that was happening around him. He had three years left until he was a man. His brother Drusus, a year younger, was almost Nero’s mirror image, but with a less open face and eyes inclined to secrecy. Both boys were nervous of the attention that awaited them.
‘Lucky we weren’t at
the head of the Triumph when you needed to shit,’ Nero teased Little Boots. ‘Where would you have done it then?’
Drusus laughed more than the jibe required.
‘On your heads!’ cried Little Boots, reddened. He’d been caught short already and forced to squat over a ditch in full view.
‘Enough, boys. Focus on the journey ahead,’ said Germanicus.
Nero and Drusus did that, anxious as cats, and their father handed bawling Drusilla to Little Boots like a doll. ‘Take your sister – she likes being with you. Perhaps she’ll start to enjoy herself.’
Little Boots accepted the youngest child while Germanicus stretched his arms. Drusilla at once stopped crying and stared at her father’s breastplate. It blazed like a fire. Germanicus stooped to the other nervous sibling – Nilla. She was not yet two but stood steadily on her feet and wore a pretty saffron stola, and her hair piled high in tresses.
‘How are you, little pearl? Nervous?’
‘No, Father.’ She clutched at his tunica with a fist of iron.
Germanicus gently extricated himself and took her hand in his. ‘Now, this is really very easy and there’s nothing to be nervous about at all.’ He said this loud enough for the boys to hear, although they pretended not to. ‘What you have to remember is that all the people want to see you, even though they don’t know yet that you’ll actually be with me.’
Nilla asked the question on her two older brothers’ lips. ‘Why does that make it easy?’
‘Because when they do see you, they’ll be instantly happy for giving them what they want. They’re very simple souls, you see, just like your puppies. Your silly puppies are always happy to see you, aren’t they? But they don’t think about much. The people are the same. So just let them see that you’re happy to see them too and you’ll be amazed at how well it goes. Put on a nice smile.’
Nilla didn’t find that hard to do, bathing in the smile of such a very great man who was beloved by Rome.
‘How do the people want us if they don’t even know we’re coming?’ asked Nero, trying not to sound plaintive.
Germanicus could see that his two older boys were in a worse state than the younger children because they understood the stakes more. This event was to be the making of his sons, provided they kept their heads, and he was less indulgent in his response to them.
‘The people want many things without even thinking of them because, for most of the time, they can always get them. Bread, water, slaves and gladiators – all things they want without having to think. The people also want to enjoy the pleasure of emotion, to feel something profound from the safe distance of observation. They don’t think about this either, but they love it when it’s given to them. Some emotions are easily felt and satisfied, like bloodlust at the arena, but others are far rarer and more sublime. When these special emotions are provided the people react with extraordinary gratitude. Today you’re going to give the people an emotion they will hold in their hearts for years, and all you have to do is ride with me.’
The oldest brothers were no less nervous but they felt better informed. They vowed not to shame their father and he allowed them a wink. ‘It was your mother’s idea, so let’s make it good for her sake.’
Agrippina’s inspiration of including the children in the Triumph was indeed a fine one. Her plan to provide an image that had never been seen in seven hundred years of pomp also gave her husband something to distract himself from his own nerves. Not that she had mentioned the latter benefit, of course. This was Germanicus’s first Triumph, deserved or not, and husband and wife accustomed their view to Rome’s own: his success had been great. Six hundred dead in the name of expanding to the Elbe had been struck from history.
There was a stir from the marshals at the gate and the assembled lictors waiting ahead of the family lurched into life, lifting their rods and axes high.
‘This is it – climb on board.’ Germanicus mounted the ceremonial chariot that had once belonged to Scipio Africanus, destroyer of Carthage. The chariot was dazzling with polished silver and ivory. He held out his hand, first for Nilla, allowing her to take a place at the front; then Little Boots with Drusilla; and lastly the two older boys. There was just enough standing room for all of them. But there was no room for the spoilsport lictor who clutched a skull, whispering reminders that the Triumpher was ‘only a man’. The traditional killjoy was in a chariot behind, due to the squeeze.
Taking Drusilla from Little Boots, Germanicus cradled the now docile child in his left arm as he prepared to extend his right in salute. The two fine white stallions, white as the chariot’s ivory, were steadied by their grooms. Beyond the gate the crowd suspected what was coming and their cheers grew at once so much louder.
The brief moment lasted a lifetime for the Triumpher. In that endless second before the stallions began their progress, Germanicus thought hard upon his short, grim history of poor judgement, worse decisions and sustained ineptitude. He thought of how little he deserved what was about to be given to him. He pondered his failures and marvelled that the sheer force of love alone – from his adopted father, from his grandmother and from his wife – had prevented him from being thrown from the Rock as a traitor.
He was a painted idol, a fraud. A lesser-born man would have been stabbed in an alley and left unmourned.
The lictors passed through the gate and Scipio Africanus’s celebrated chariot moved forward on smooth wheels. The Triumpher and his children were ready to be received by Rome.
Standing near the ditch with the other household slaves, Nymphomidia was the only other keeper of her mistress’s secret; not even Germanicus knew. Hoping that Agrippina would soon reveal it, Nymphomidia tried to shout above the din, ‘Gods be with you, my domine!’ But he didn’t hear.
Burrus – the slave who eventually told me all that happened here – was at Nymphomidia’s side. He caught Nilla’s eye with his smile. She waved to him, feeling braver, but was suddenly startled as a beggar shoved Burrus to the ground and sprinted past him through the gate.
Shocked, Burrus stared from the dust as the beggar tried to disappear into the throng. But a bystander objected to the haste and struck the beggar’s ankle with a staff, sprawling him to the dirt. A thin bronze dagger shot from the beggar’s cloak and bounced along the road stones in full view of all.
The beggar swore in rage, scrabbled for the knife, and upon seizing it, turned to meet Germanicus’s gaze from the chariot.
Hyacinthus froze.
Yet Germanicus stared at him without even seeing. The front row of lictors saw and raised their rods in threat.
Hyacinthus flew into the throng again.
The glimpse of the tumbling dagger burned in Burrus’s eyes. Something was wrong. The beggar wasn’t fleeing in panic. He was late, rushing to get somewhere in time – some place where a knife would be needed. He meant harm to someone. Burrus took to his feet in pursuit.
Nymphomidia was incredulous. ‘Burrus? Burrus, come back!’
A single thought went through Burrus’s mind. Who would the beggar be rushing to bring death to on this, the day that Rome had eyes for only one man?
Germanicus, of course.
Agrippina’s heart was in her mouth as the lictors reached the Forum. At the balcony’s ledge, she and Antonia craned to see as, at last, the ivory horses lifted their heads high in the sun, pulling forth the beautiful chariot.
‘Will you look at them! Magnificent.’ Antonia’s arm linked through her daughter-in-law’s.
Castor and Claudius were tipsy and cheering, and even Livilla got into the spirit. ‘Don’t they all look adorable?’ she declared. ‘The boys look like men!’
In the Forum below, Germanicus and his children were models of dignity; their faces calm; their smiles full, wide and visible from the Palatine. Germanicus looked resolutely ahead, Drusilla weightless in his strong arm. His salute was rigid, a salute to all Rome. The children raked their smiles back and forth across the masses, with their eyes trained above to
the Forum’s rich facades; they were seen by all, but not seeing anyone, just as their father had coached them.
Behind the crowd, where no eyes saw, Burrus gasped for breath as he ran to keep the beggar in sight. Several times he fell, cutting and grazing his skin. He was slapped by an angry woman whom he tripped against, and then was nearly savaged by a frightened dog. He couldn’t let the beggar vanish from view – this beggar had godlike stamina, for one who relied on luck for his meals. He was not a beggar at all – Burrus knew it. This man was a hired killer.
The crowd peaked in hysteria. The horses, chariot and robes were covered in spring wildflowers that rained down on Germanicus and his family from the baying Forum masses. Babies were held up by mothers to see the family’s very own baby staring back at them in wonder from Germanicus’s arm.
‘Look at his little mite!’
‘Look how he holds her like that – what a proud father.’
‘That’s a man to have as a husband – see how he loves his children.’
‘Germanicus puts family first.’
Hyacinthus reached a dead end. The procession was passing but there was no more chance to slip behind the crowd. He scanned for an alley that would give him a short cut and bring him out somewhere ahead of the chariot – and then his eyes landed on the earnest, angry face of a slave-boy. The same one he had shoved out of the way at the Servian Wall. The kid was following him.
As a threat to his task this was nothing, but Hyacinthus didn’t like it. He used surprise to his advantage and rushed headlong at the boy.
Burrus saw murder in his face. ‘Killer!’ he screamed. ‘He’s got a knife!’
The few who heard and noticed saw this only as entertainment.
Hyacinthus seized Burrus hard by the neck. Terrified, Burrus twisted from his grasp and dived into the legs of the crowd, forcing his way between them. The beggar was fast behind him – Burrus heard the shouts of complaint from the crowd. Below and invisible, desperate Burrus was kicked and stamped while above him all were cheering at the passing Triumph. Young girls and youths were screaming so hard they were like animals, tearing at their clothes and hair.
Empress Of Rome 1: Den Of Wolves Page 42