‘The day I don’t will be my last; until then I enjoy the wealth and luxury that power and position bring whilst trying to ignore the third gift of those two fickle bitches.’
‘Fear?’
For the first time in their acquaintance Pallas let his mask slip; his eyes half closed and he sighed. ‘Constant.’ As quickly as it had disappeared the mask was redeployed; Pallas nodded a goodnight and walked away.
Vespasian turned to the open door, paused to compose himself and then walked through to meet the family that he had not seen for six years.
A gasp escaped Vespasian’s lips as he entered Flavia’s apartment and looked around.
‘Master, you are welcome,’ a middle-aged, brown-skinned slave in a well-cut tunic of fine, sky-blue linen said, bowing low. ‘My mistress heard of your arrival in the palace this evening and awaits you in the triclinium. My name is Cleon, I am the steward here; please follow me at your convenience.’
Vespasian barely heard the slave’s words as he took in the room around him. He was standing in an atrium, forty paces long by twenty wide, complete with an impluvium beneath a rectangular opening to the night sky in the ceiling above it; at its centre stood a bronze fountain depicting Venus holding a jar on her shoulder from which water cascaded into the white-lily-strewn pool below. But it was not the fact that he was standing in an atrium that should have been, by rights, on the ground floor of a villa and not in an apartment on the first floor that had made him gasp; it was the sheer luxuriousness of the décor. Low, marble tables on gilded legs of animal design, around which were neatly placed couches and chairs of polished wood of differing origins, all sumptuously cushioned or upholstered, surrounded the central pool. Ornaments stood on the reflective marble so that there seemed to be twice their number: silver and bronze statuettes, bowls of coloured glass containing freshly cut rose blooms, vases worked of stone or glazed earthenware, painted with geometrical designs or depictions of gods and heroes; Vespasian’s eyes took them all in and his brain swiftly calculated their approximate worth. Around the walls, busts of great men from times gone by were placed in niches on marble pedestals and in each corner stood a life-size, or larger, statue, painted in flesh tones and with eyes that followed the beholder around the room. But it was not just all this that made Vespasian stare openmouthed, as the slave waited in the doorway at the far end for him to follow; it was the frescos, and one in particular: Mother Isis, resplendent in her blue robe, looking down on lines of her worshippers, dressed in contrasting vibrant colours, as her priest performed a sacrifice over the fire on her altar, bedecked with chains of holly and surrounded by waterfowl. Each figure, whether human or animal, was of such exquisite craftsmanship that Vespasian knew that it was the work of one of the finest schools of artists in Rome. He also knew that Isis was Flavia’s guardian goddess and he shuddered as he realised that this fresco would not have been here when she had first moved in; she had commissioned it – at what cost?
He swallowed, adjusted his toga and, hoping against hope that the fresco was the only luxury in the room that he had paid for, followed Cleon through the door and into the triclinium.
‘Husband,’ Flavia purred as he entered the room, adjusting her position on the couch so as to flaunt the full, round shapeliness of her body beneath her stola of deep red linen. ‘I have prayed to Mother Isis for this moment every day since we parted.’ Gracefully she placed her feet onto the mosaic floor and stood up, causing her breasts to sway enticingly and Vespasian’s scrotum to tighten. Erect, she sashayed across the room to him, her neck straight and her head held high as if the elaborately tall coiffure crowning it was difficult to balance; dark ringlets fell down either side of her face highlighting the natural milkiness of her skin. Her dusky eyes glistened as they fixed on him, and her lips, painted an intimate shade of pink, parted invitingly. Dangling earrings swung gently from her lobes, a bejewelled necklace at her throat glinted and rings flashed on her fingers as she raised her hands and tenderly cupped Vespasian’s face; her perfume, musky and heart-quickening, enshrouded him as she pulled him towards her and into a fiery kiss that completed his full-blooded arousal onto which she pressed her belly.
‘I knew that you’d come to me first this time,’ Flavia murmured as their lips parted.
Surprised by the heat and coquettishness of her welcome, all thoughts of her profligacy were pushed to one side and he smiled with genuine feeling for the mother of his children but not the keeper of his heart. ‘You are my wife, Flavia; it’s only right that I come to you first.’
‘It may be right but it’s not always the case.’
Vespasian was not about to argue as he knew this to be true and, had circumstances been different, he might well have been holding Caenis right now. But he was here and his body was obviously pleased to see her; as was he. He turned to the steward hovering at a discreet distance beyond the open door. ‘Leave us, Cleon.’ The door closed; Vespasian led Flavia back to the couch and, without much preliminary fuss, urgently began to make up for six years being apart from his wife.
‘They’ll both be asleep,’ Flavia murmured with her eyes closed in response to his question.
Vespasian sat up on the couch. ‘I know; that’s why I want to see them now. I want to look at them, see their faces and get to know them a bit before I actually talk to them in the morning.’
Flavia opened her eyes and looked up at him. ‘If you insist, husband; who is a wife to keep a father from his children?’ She got to her feet and began to bring some semblance of order to her stola, which had had a rough ride during the last half an hour or more; her coiffure was beyond repair and she contented herself with giving it a couple of half-hearted pats before retrieving an errant earring from the couch. ‘Come,’ she said, taking Vespasian’s hand and leading him from the room back out into the lavishly appointed atrium. ‘Isn’t it lovely? I was so grateful to the Empress when she invited me to move in. She and I have become such firm friends and Titus and Britannicus adore each other; they take it in turns to sleep in one another’s rooms. Britannicus is here tonight, which is why the door is guarded. It’s a singular honour having the heir to the Empire under my roof; the other women around the palace are so jealous.’ She giggled and fluttered her eyelashes up at Vespasian. ‘The Emperor must favour you greatly to have allowed this to happen.’
Vespasian forced a smile, but knew it was not very convincing. He did not reply, marvelling instead at how quickly Flavia had returned to form after having won, in her eyes, the first battle between his women that Magnus had predicted. ‘Was it furnished when you moved in?’
‘Yes, but rather shabbily; the apartment hadn’t been used since Tiberius’ time and then only occasionally by minor officials and suchlike. It’s kept me very busy getting it fit for your return. Do you like it?’
Vespasian gave the most enthusiastic grunt he could in the circumstances as they left the room and passed into a wide corridor with windows down one side and doors down the other.
Flavia stopped at the second one outside which stood another two Praetorians. ‘This is Titus’ room, you must be very quiet.’ She turned the handle and stepped inside; Vespasian followed her into a room lit by a single oil lamp in which two boys were sleeping. Flavia went to the right-hand bed and looked down. ‘This is your son, husband; see how he has grown.’
Vespasian’s eyes took a few moments to adapt to the gloom. As they did the sleeping face of Titus came into focus and Vespasian drew in a sharp breath: it was as if he was looking at himself thirty years ago. His son had the same physiognomy: full round cheeks either side of a strong if slightly bulbous nose, large ears with pronounced lobes and a well-proportioned mouth with thin lips set over a slightly rounded, jutting jaw; but all this was contained in the immature face of a boy not quite eight. Vespasian gazed at Titus and felt sure that their similarity in feature would extend to closeness in temperament.
He bent to kiss his son’s forehead and then put an arm around Flavia’s shoulder
whilst stroking Titus’ soft, light-brown hair. ‘He’s beautiful, my dear; let’s hope that we can make something great of him.’
‘We will, Vespasian; he’s getting one of the finest starts to life that a child can get. He’s the companion of the next Emperor.’
Which was what concerned Vespasian, although he did not voice it. As he turned to leave the room he glanced at the sleeping form of Britannicus and recalled Pallas’ prediction, four years before in Britannia, that the boy would be too young at Claudius’ death to be considered a viable successor; instead of reaching manhood he would be murdered by the man who stole his rightful inheritance – whoever that might be. Vespasian left the room with a prayer that somehow he would be able to keep his son safe during that tumultuous time in the not so distant future.
Flavia led him down the corridor to the next room; it was unguarded. She opened the door and ushered Vespasian inside; again it was dimly lit by a single lamp. He crossed the floor to a small bed on the far side beneath a shuttered window and with a fluttering within his chest beheld his daughter for the first time. Born soon after he had left Rome, Domitilla was now almost six; she lay on her back sleeping with the serenity that only a young child can. One arm was draped above her head, entangled in her long brown hair, and the other dangled off the side of the bed; her head was tilted to one side so that it faced Vespasian and he saw that she was beautiful. She had inherited her mother’s features; Vespasian could not help but wish that she would not also share her mother’s taste for the finer things in life but knew that to be a forlorn hope, given the comfort she was already used to. As this thought went through his mind, Domitilla stirred in her sleep and opened her eyes, looking directly into Vespasian’s; for a moment she held his gaze and then smiled at him before turning over and resuming her soft, rhythmic breaths. Vespasian could not be sure if she had actually seen him, having been so deeply asleep, but he had seen her eyes and he was smitten. It was with abundant joy that he kissed his daughter for the first time and then followed Flavia from the room.
‘And now, Vespasian,’ Flavia said as she closed the door, ‘it’s time for you to remind me again what it’s like to have a husband at home.’
Vespasian acquiesced with a grin and took her by the hand. Having seen his children, he was feeling very affectionately disposed towards his wife.
*
The dawn was warm and resounded in birdsong. Vespasian looked down from his bedroom window into a garden at the heart of the palace complex, surrounded by a colonnade crowned by a sloping terracotta-tiled roof, still damp after a light, nocturnal summer rain. Within the garden, slaves were moving around, watering the plants and bushes and preparing the lush oasis for Rome’s élite to use.
There was a knock on the door and Vespasian glanced down at Flavia, still asleep in the bed; she did not stir. ‘Enter.’
Two female slaves stepped into the room with their heads bowed; the younger one had a robe draped over one arm and held a pair of slippers.
‘What is it?’
The elder of the two, a dumpy woman in her thirties with the vague hint of a moustache, raised her eyes. ‘We’ve come to attend to the mistress, master; she asked to be wakened at dawn.’
Flavia opened an eye and let out a contented sigh as she focused on Vespasian. ‘Good morning, husband.’ She then noticed the two slaves in the doorway and her countenance changed. ‘Out! Both of you!’
The two slaves fled as ordered, closing the door behind them.
‘Come back to bed, Vespasian,’ Flavia offered, raising the blanket and revealing the shadowy outline of her naked body.
‘I don’t have the time,’ Vespasian replied, picking up his tunic from where it had been discarded the night before and slipping it over his head. ‘I want to be presented to the children and then I have to go.’
Flavia made a noise that sounded like a cross between disappointment and an enticing purr.
‘Do you always treat your dressers like that?’
‘Oh, they weren’t my dressers, Isis no; they’re just the girls who get me out of bed and escort me to my dressing room. My dressers attend me there, along with my make-up girls and hairdressers; those two come back here and clean the bedroom whilst I get ready.’
‘You’ve got slaves to do each of those things?’
‘Of course, my dear; what fashionable woman does not?’
Vespasian eased his feet into his red senatorial shoes. ‘So, Flavia, how many women help you to make yourself presentable each morning?’
‘Oh, very few; not nearly as many as Messalina has.’
‘I should hope not; she’s the Empress and you’re just the wife of an ex-legate – a very poor ex-legate at that.’
‘There’s no need to worry about the money, Vespasian; I’ve got plenty of it. How else could I have afforded to furnish this place and purchase nine girls?’
‘Nine! Whatever for?’
Flavia sat up and began to count off on her fingers. ‘Well, three hairdressers, two make—’
‘Did you just say that you had plenty of money?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I told the Cloelius Brothers’ banking house in the forum not to advance you more than five thousand a year.’
‘I know, and the horrid little men couldn’t be talked out of it; that’s why Messalina kindly gave me a very generous loan. She said—’
‘She did what!’
‘Gave me a loan.’
‘A loan!’ Vespasian almost spat out the word as if it were the most deadly of poisons. ‘You never asked permission from me to take a loan.’
‘You had much more important things on your mind and, besides, I didn’t need to. It was just a little arrangement between good friends, as a personal favour – from the Empress, no less, the other women were so jealous – to tide me over until you got back and could see that the allowance you’d given me wasn’t nearly enough to cover my outgoings and could remedy the situation. She said she’d charge only a nominal interest.’
‘How much interest?’
‘I can’t remember now, but it’s written down on the contract somewhere.’
‘You signed a contract?’
‘Of course.’
Vespasian sat, with a jolt, on a convenient chair and attempted to master his growing rage. ‘Just how much have you borrowed?’
‘My dear, hardly anything; just half of the value of that money that you brought back from Alexandria eight years ago, and have done nothing with since.’
Vespasian’s eyes narrowed as he struggled to prevent himself from slapping his wife. ‘You’ve borrowed one hundred and twenty-five thousand denarii from Messalina?’
Flavia’s voice hardened. ‘I’m now a lady of consequence, the mother to the heir’s companion; I need to appear as such and your allowance was insufficient. How else was I going to make a comfortable home for the children and for you to come back to? We need somewhere to entertain the finest people in Rome without feeling humiliated each time they turn their noses up at our tawdry furnishings.’
‘The Alexandrian money has already been spoken for: Gaius used it to secure a house on the Quirinal; your house! The one I bought for you to move into as soon as I can extract you from this labyrinth of intrigue without causing offence.’
‘Why should we move out of here? I’ve made it very comfortable.’
‘With borrowed money from Messalina, which puts me in her debt! No one in their right minds would put themselves in that situation! And at the moment I can’t afford to pay her off.’
‘Nonsense, one hundred and twenty-five thousand is nothing, husband; you must have made a fortune in slaves and plunder. Everyone always does; Messalina told me so.’
Unable to take any more without risking serious damage to either Flavia or her precious furnishings, Vespasian rose to his feet and stormed out of the door.
‘What about the children?’ Flavia called after him.
‘I’ll see them later – once I think you’ll be
safe in my presence again!’
Vespasian had calmed somewhat by the time he saw his uncle arriving on the Palatine. Gaius was surrounded by his retinue of clients and preceded by Magnus and a couple of his crossroads brethren bearing stout staves to beat a way through the crowds. In the hour since leaving Flavia’s apartment in a rage greater than he could recall ever being in before, other than in battle, he had stalked up and down outside the palace cursing Flavia and contemplating his options. He had to extract himself from Messalina’s debt before she could call it in. Once he had begun to compose himself he thought of a way to do so without mortgaging any of his property; however, he still had no idea how to curb his wife’s extravagance and naïvety. That would have to wait, he decided, as Magnus approached and Gaius began to dismiss his clients.
‘You don’t look too pleased,’ Magnus commented.
‘That’s because I’m not. I need you to do something for me,’ Vespasian replied, pulling his friend to one side to explain the situation.
Magnus stared at Vespasian for a few moments in amazement, and then burst into a roar of laughter. ‘You’ve taken a loan? I never thought I’d see the day.’
‘Keep your voice down! I’ve not taken a loan, Flavia has.’
‘Well, it’s the same thing, ain’t it? She’s your wife so you’re responsible for her actions.’
‘I know; and the stupid woman doesn’t realise the danger that she’s put me in because her vanity can’t see past the glory of being on good terms with the Empress and wants to milk the jealousy that it provokes in other women.’
‘I did warn you about marrying a woman with expensive tastes.’
‘Saying “I told you so” gets me nowhere; and you were wrong, by the way; she didn’t get herself two hairdressers.’
‘No?’
‘No, she got three!’
‘I seem to remember saying that she would need at least two, so I was right, but I won’t rub it in. So what is it you want me to do?’
Masters of Rome: VESPASIAN V (Vespasian 5) Page 26
