Robert Fabbri: Rome's lost son

Claudius pretended to consider the issue for a few moments, melodramatically rubbing his moist chin, while all those present did their best to conceal their embarrassment. ‘It shall be d-d-death. Burrus!’

From behind Caenis, Sextus Afranius Burrus, Agrippina’s choice as the new prefect of the Praetorian Guard, stepped forward and yelled to his men, ‘The execution party will advance!’

Six men with garrottes marched from the ranks while a further dozen made their way to the prisoners and herded them forward. The females and some of the younger males fell to their knees before the embodiment of the Roman State, twitching on his curule chair, and issued pleas for their lives in broken Latin, tearing at their hair and rending their clothes as their executioners ranged in a line behind them.

Vespasian looked at Caratacus, hoping that the man who had been so worthy an adversary would not stoop to the level of some in his retinue; he was not disappointed. The Britannic King stood, erect and proud, disdaining to plead for his life; instead, he stared at the Emperor of Rome with no sign of incredulity at his unbecoming appearance and, when he caught Claudius’ eye, he inclined his head fractionally as if greeting an equal.

Claudius frowned and then held up a hand for silence. ‘B-b-before the reb-b-b-bel dies let him explain his actions.’

Caratacus lifted his hands so that all could see his chains. ‘Had my restraint while I was prosperous matched, rather than fallen short of, my honour and noble birth, I would have entered Rome as your friend and not your captive. You would not have disdained to receive a king descended from such illustrious ancestors, the lord of many nations, and we would have signed a treaty of mutual friendship and peace. However, now my humiliation is as glorious to you as it is degrading to me; but I have brought myself to this pass. I had men, horses, arms and wealth. Who would blame me if I parted with them reluctantly? If you Romans, in your halls of marble, who have so much, choose to become masters of the world, does it follow that we, in our huts of mud, who have comparatively little, should accept slavery? I am here as your prisoner because my pride would not allow me to give you all that I had. But I say this to you, Emperor of the Romans, neither my fall nor your triumph will become famous; I shall be just another king crushed under your heel. My punishment will be followed by oblivion and your victory will be soon forgotten. Whereas, if you grant me my life, I shall be an everlasting memorial of your clemency and bring glory to your name.’

Claudius gawped at the Britannic King, his jaw moving as if masticating stubborn gristle, while weighing these words.

As he vacillated, Agrippina stood and held out her arms to Caratacus. ‘Your eloquence has moved me.’ A tear rolled down her cheek as if in confirmation of the veracity of the statement. She turned to her son. ‘What does Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus, the Prince of the Youth, think?’

Nero had taken his mother’s lead and, with a mighty sob of raw emotion, had begun to weep. ‘I believe, Mother dearest, that my father should show clemency in this one instance. A merciful ruler is a lauded ruler and his praise will be written and sung.’ He looked towards Britannicus as his tutor, Seneca, nodded in sage agreement, the picture of self-satisfaction. ‘I’m sure my brother would agree.’

Britannicus did not meet his stepbrother’s eyes. ‘A ruler who does not punish rebellion will encourage more.’ Heads nodded in agreement with such wisdom from so young a source. ‘I believe Domitius to be wrong.’

There was a hush around the daises and all eyes looked at the Emperor to see if he would reprimand his natural son for such an insult to his adoptive one. Sosibius visibly paled and stared at his charge, his mouth open in horror. Vespasian saw Titus, standing with the other youths of the imperial household, smile involuntarily before taking on the shocked expression of his fellows.

Claudius’ head jerked and he shook as he felt the ice-glare of his wife biting into him. Nero fell to his knees as melodramatically as the wronged lover in a comedy, his tears now streaming down his face. He took the supplication pose with easy perfection as Seneca placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘Father, don’t let my brother repudiate me.’ Nero flung his head back, one hand running through his luxuriant flame curls and then rested the back of his other hand on his brow before addressing the heavens. ‘As the gods are my witness, I ceased to be a member of the Domitii when you adopted me, Father.’

Claudius’ throat spasmed as he tried to form a word; eventually it exploded from him: ‘Britannicus!’ It echoed around the walls. ‘Apologise!’

Britannicus did not quail. ‘The legitimate heir to the Purple apologises to no one. You should support your own blood, the pure blood of the Julio-Claudians, against that tainted by the Domitii. I say Caratacus should die.’ He glared at his rival who was now catching tears on his fingertips and displaying them to the crowd.

Claudius held out his fist as if adjudicating at a gladiatorial fight and kept his thumb pressed close to it in imitation of a sheathed sword. ‘C–C-Caratacus shall live! As shall his retinue.’

Burrus looked to the Empress; she glared at Britannicus and then nodded with a triumphant smile. The Praetorian prefect turned to his cohorts. ‘All hail the Emperor’s mercy!’

The roar of nine thousand voices rose to the sky, once again sending aloft the crows in fluttering spirals. The other captives fell to their knees at the foot of Claudius’ dais and reached up with their hands to touch his feet as Caratacus strode forward and bowed first to the Emperor and then to the Empress and her son, who had now risen to his feet and taken a pose with one hand on his heart and slowly shaking his head while staring into the middle distance as if attempting to summon the words with which to describe such a majestic act of mercy.

Caratacus then presented his chains to Burrus.

‘There is a very canny man,’ Gaius observed in Vespasian’s ear as Caratacus’ manacles were unlocked to renewed cheering from the Guard.

‘And there is a very unhappy boy and a very frightened tutor,’ Vespasian said, watching Sosibius usher Britannicus back towards Titus and the rest of the youths. ‘I wonder if he’ll dare to beat him one last time before he finds himself looking for a new position.’

Sosibius glanced at Agrippina in terror and Britannicus looked over his shoulder at Claudius with undisguised hatred, as the Father of the House launched into the first of many sycophantic, senatorial speeches praising the mercy of the man who had executed more of their number and the equestrian class than had his predecessor, Caligula.

The sun was well past its zenith when Claudius, having exhausted the supply of snacks brought to him at regular intervals during the long succession of speeches, grew tired of being lauded on an empty stomach and called for his litter.

Vespasian brought proceedings to a close by proposing a full debate in the Senate the following day to vote his colleague in the consulship a double-life-sized bronze statue in the Temple of Concordia in praise of his magnanimity and his ability to bring concord to all peoples.

Suitably flattered, the Emperor left, having been helped into his litter by the latest addition to the equestrian class; Caratacus was also now the proud owner of a villa on the Esquiline Hill that had belonged to a senator who had forfeited his property having been falsely accused of treason by Agrippina and executed.

‘I think you did very well out of that, dear boy,’ Gaius observed as they watched the Empress give one final venomous glare in Britannicus’ direction and then leave with Nero laying his head on her breast as the curtains of the litter were drawn. ‘The Senate will vote for Claudius’ statue and he’ll thank you for it when you step down in three days.’