Rome's Lost Son

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘Tell him, Magnus.’

  ‘He had the East Aventine Brotherhood attack the South Quirinal Brotherhood.’

  ‘That’s exactly what he did,’ Vespasian agreed. ‘In an effort to have me killed; but, instead, quite a few of Magnus’ brothers lost their lives. I imagine the South Quirinal would like to see justice done.’

  ‘Very much so; but they wouldn’t be anxious to see justice done quickly, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘Oh, but I do, Magnus, I do.’ Vespasian was now enjoying this even more than he had anticipated he would when he had made the connection between Corvinus knowing when he would be in Magnus’ tavern and Laelius. That had been over a month before and since then he had been savouring the prospect of Laelius coming to plead for his chickpea contract. ‘But you are no longer a member of that brotherhood so it’s not really your argument any more. We wouldn’t want murder committed for no reason, would we, Laelius?’

  A flicker of hope showed in Laelius’ eyes. ‘No, patronus.’

  ‘So when will be the next time you see your former brethren, Magnus?’

  ‘In the Circus Maximus in an hour or so to watch your team race for the Greens for the first time.’

  ‘Now that is convenient. Laelius lives in Red Horse Street just off the Alta Semita.’

  ‘I know it well, sir, so do Tigran and the lads.’

  ‘And once you’ve told Tigran and the lads that Laelius was responsible for the deaths of a few of their brethren and their temporary eviction from their tavern, how long do you think it would take them to find Laelius’ house?’

  ‘My guess is that for the pleasure of revenge for something like that they would forgo the racing and be there within a half-hour.’

  Vespasian made a show of doing some arithmetic. ‘I would say that you’ve got precisely an hour and a half to get out of Rome, Laelius. Goodbye.’

  Laelius looked wide-eyed at Vespasian and then realised that he was indeed letting him go. He stood, grimacing at the pain in his shoulders, and then ran from the room with his arms flapping uselessly beside him.

  ‘Follow him, Hormus, and don’t let anyone open the door for him; let him try and work that out for himself.’

  ‘Are you really going to give him a chance, sir?’

  Vespasian shrugged. ‘Do you think that the lads won’t get him?’

  ‘Of course they’ll get him, even if he runs to Corvinus.’

  ‘Well, then, after what he did, he deserves to live his last few hours, or days, in terror of the inevitable.’

  ‘What do you want to do about Corvinus? I could get the lads to torch his house for him.’

  Vespasian contemplated the offer briefly. ‘No, but thank you, Magnus, it was a kind offer; he’s so rich that it would hardly inconvenience him at all. I’ll think of something suitable in due course.’

  Magnus grinned. ‘I’m sure you will. In which case, I think it’s time we went to the circus, sir.’

  ‘So do I, Magnus; and now that Seneca has persuaded Nero to grant Malichus his citizenship I think the gods will look kindly on my team. I’ve a feeling that this is our lucky day.’

  Magnus grinned. ‘I believe you may be right; after all, it’s already started off so pleasantly.’

  The sight of Caratacus being admitted to the imperial box reminded Vespasian that he wanted to share, over dinner, their reminiscences of four years of fighting each other. But as the Britannic chieftain was greeted by Nero, who was enthusing about the scale model of the Circus Maximus and comparing its details to the real structure surrounding them, Vespasian returned to his inner battle and looked down at the purse in his hand, struggling with himself and his inability to part easily with money.

  ‘I’ve put ten aurii on them, dear boy,’ Gaius, sitting to his right, informed him, holding up the wooden bet marker that he had just received from the bookmaker’s slave with whom he had placed the bet.

  Vespasian was appalled. ‘That’s five times the annual salary of a legionary, Uncle. What if they lose?’

  ‘Then I shall blame you because they’re your horses. But if I win, then I’ll get eight times my bet because no one fancies the Greens’ third chariot with a team that has never raced before.’

  Vespasian looked back down at his purse and weighed it in his hand. Despite the fact that he had driven his team himself a few times in the Flammian Circus and was well aware of their prowess, he was still finding it very hard to lay his first ever bet.

  Flavia, seated to his left, snorted in derision. ‘You’ll have as much chance of getting him to place a bet on his own horses, Gaius, as you would of getting him to pay for your upkeep if you made the mistake of marrying him without a dowry. Fortunately I didn’t make that error.’ She smiled in a goading manner and brandished her bet marker. ‘Fifteen denarii of my money on your horses, dear husband.’

  Vespasian was taken by just how much his wife was becoming like his mother; given another few years, he surmised, she would stand a good chance of being just as cantankerous. He felt relief that he had forbidden Vespasia Polla to accompany him and Flavia back to Rome, after they had visited her in Aquae Cutillae for the Saturnalia, ostensibly on account of her frailty and the cold; in reality it was because of their souring natures rubbing each other. Dealing with two such women on a daily basis had been intolerable; whereas the month that he had spent with Caenis at Cosa had been very tolerable indeed.

  Titus leant over his mother and rubbed Vespasian’s arm, bringing him back to his present dilemma. ‘Come on, Father, it’s just a bit of fun; I’ve put down five denarii.’

  ‘Five! Where did you get that from?’

  ‘It’s part of my allowance.’ Titus cocked an eyebrow before adding, ‘Quite a large part seeing as you’re the one who sets the level of it.’

  Vespasian did not take offence at his son’s remark; he knew that, although it was an exaggeration, there was more than a grain of truth in it. He sighed, pulled a coin out of his purse and handed it to the waiting bookmaker’s slave. ‘One sesterces on the Green number three chariot. What will I get if I win?’

  ‘Two denarii plus your original stake, master,’ the slave replied, taking the bronze coin. With great ceremony he placed it in his bag before recording the wager in his ledger and then handing the numbered marker to Vespasian.

  As the slave walked off to report back to his master, based with the other bookmakers at the rear of the senators’ enclosure, Titus handed him a silver denarius. ‘That’s for managing to keep a straight face.’

  Vespasian punched the air and screamed incoherently as the leading three chariots skidded, in clouds of dust, out of the turn into the last of the seven laps, almost level. Only the Red supporters in the circus remained seated as their three chariots lay in mangled wrecks scattered around the track. The Blues, Whites and Greens, however, had jumped to their feet to urge on their teams for the last desperate effort. But those who were yelling the loudest were the people who had put their money on the outsider: the unknown Green team. The team had caused a stir around the circus during the parade before the race; supporters of all factions had marvelled at the quality of the Arabs. Even the Emperor, who was no mean judge of horse-flesh, had been impressed and had interrupted showing off his new set of finely carved ivory chariot models to Caratacus, seated with him, and summoned Eusebius, the Green faction-master, to the imperial box. Vespasian had felt Nero’s eyes rest upon him a couple of times as they discussed the team.

  But now Vespasian was lost in the excitement of the race as the three leading chariots shot down the straight on the other side of the spina to the delirious roar of a quarter of a million people. The hortatores, the single horsemen who guided each chariot through the dust, wreckage and chaos of the race, reached the turning post at the far end of the spina for the last time and, signalling frantically at a party of track slaves, trying to rescue a trapped Red charioteer from his shattered vehicle, to take shelter within the tangle of wood and thrashing horses, made the turn an
d then pulled aside to leave the final straight clear for the three remaining teams.

  With the White on the inside, taking the slower but sharper turn, the Blue and the Green charioteers whipped their teams to speed them around the outside at the fastest possible pace, negating the White’s advantage of taking the shorter route. As the three chariots levelled out they were almost in a line and with no more turns to go it was all about fitness and pace. And as the roar of the Green supporters, seated mainly on the left-hand side of the great entrance gates, increased to storm-like proportions, it was obvious which team had the most of both those qualities; qualities that Vespasian knew very well from his amateur efforts with them.

  But now they were in the hands of a professional.

  With seeming effortlessness the four Arab greys lengthened their stride and almost glided away while the White and Blue drivers, their leather-strapped chests heaving with the exertion, slashed their four-lashed whips over the withers of their teams to no discernible effect. The Green supporters howled their joy as the seventh dolphin tilted and the Green charioteer raised an arm in a victory salute.

  ‘They weren’t even at full stretch by the end!’ Gaius yelled in Vespasian’s ear. ‘That could be the best team in Rome at the moment.’

  Vespasian beamed at his uncle, his thoughts focused on all the prize money that was now a very real possibility as a Praetorian Guardsman pushed his way along the row to them. With a perfunctory salute he delivered his message: ‘The Emperor commands you and your son to join him for dinner after the last race.’ Without waiting for a reply the man moved off.

  ‘Oh dear, dear boy,’ Gaius said, the joy of winning slipping from his face. ‘I’ve a nasty feeling that I’m not the only one who thinks that.’

  Vespasian looked over to Nero and had the suspicion that his uncle was right.

  ‘You must understand, Vespasian,’ Seneca said, coming straight to the point, as he met Vespasian and Titus in the palace’s atrium, ‘that to keep the Emperor … how should I say? Mollified? Yes, mollified, that’s the word, exactly right; to keep the Emperor mollified we need to give him what he wants.’ He placed an avuncular arm around Vespasian’s shoulders. ‘If he gets what he wants then we find him far more amenable to acting with reason and restraint.’

  ‘We?’ Vespasian asked pointedly as Seneca led him at speed through the once dignified chamber designed, by Augustus, to overawe visiting embassies with Rome’s majesty rather than ostentatiously show off its wealth as Nero had evidently decided to do. Hugely expensive works of art were now scattered about the room; not garish and brash as they had been in Caligula’s time but, rather, exquisite in their beauty and workmanship. There was, however, vulgarity in their abundance.

  ‘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 birthd
ay 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.’