Robert Fabbri - Rome's lost son

Vespasian could see the depressing logic of Britannicus’ argument: however he looked at it, he was doomed. But maybe he was right about Titus. Now that he was back in Rome, Vespasian decided that the person he needed to cultivate was the man who would hold the reins of the next emperor. ‘Do you think, Uncle, that it would be beneath our family’s dignity for me to become Seneca’s client?’

‘Without a doubt, dear boy; but when did that ever stop anyone from trying to secure their position?’

Vespasian, for the first time, found some enjoyment in watching the chariot teams hurl themselves around the sand track of the Circus Maximus; he even found himself willing on the Greens — although this did not translate into actual cheering. He began to look forward, with genuine anticipation, to the prospect of seeing his team of beautiful Arabs leaving the rest of the field behind as they stormed to victory, but more than that, he was looking forward to seeing Caenis that evening. Her naked form came to his mind, her smile enticing him with the prospect of an exhaustingly adventurous time in her bedchamber. However, his daydreaming was regularly interrupted by the almost surreal goings-on in the imperial box, just ten paces to his right.

Claudius had arrived in a litter at the Temple of Fortuna Redux and this had not been solely because his legs were weak; as he dismounted it had been obvious to all that he was still drunk — drunker, even, than he had been the day before. The shame of his fellow priests — Galba’s in particular — had been plain for all to see as he slurred his way through the prescribed prayers and then botched the sacrifice so that blood spurted all over his toga in what everybody knew was the worst of omens. However, those senators who had been present in the House the day before were not at all surprised that he should be the subject of a portent of death. Nero, now almost fully grown since Vespasian had last seen him, his sunset hair radiant and now matched by a downy beard, had stood on the temple steps making extravagant gestures of concern and alarm for his adoptive father. He had ostentatiously mouthed every word of the prayers as if coaching Claudius through them; each time the Emperor managed to complete a whole line without a slur or a stutter, the Prince of the Youth made a show of breathing sighs of relief that the gullible in the crowd — a large majority — took to be heartfelt and genuine.

Once the rites had been completed Claudius had been, almost literally, scooped up by Pallas and Burrus, placed back in his litter and equipped with sufficient of the juice of Bacchus to last him for the four-hundred-pace journey to the Circus Maximus. Despite the shortness of the trip the jug had been empty upon his arrival, but Agrippina, awaiting him in the imperial box, had seen to his refreshment requirements as soon as he entered and had since hardly stopped feeding her drink-sodden husband wine of a very undiluted nature.

Agrippina, Nero, Pallas and Burrus were now acting as if nothing were amiss as Claudius, having summoned Paelignus to the box to play dice between races, could barely remain upright in his seat and seemed to be in considerable difficulty each time he attempted to cast his throw.

The crowd, though, took little notice of the inebriate in the imperial box as they urged on the great-hearted equine teams seven times around the spina , the barrier running almost centrally down the middle of the arena upon which were mounted the bronze dolphins that marked the passing of each lap. Twelve races of twelve teams, three from each of the factions, were cheered on that afternoon and the celebrations for the winners were raucous; however, they were loudest for one team, when the neutrals and sycophants in the circus joined the Prince of the Youth in his extravagant poses of joy on the four occasions that his beloved Blues were first to tip the seventh dolphin.

With theatrical aplomb the dashing, current heir to the Purple presented the huge prizes to the triumphant Blue charioteers, basking in their glory as if he himself had driven the winning team. From the back of the box, the boy with whom Claudius, in his befuddled mind, planned to replace the glamorous poseur looked on unnoticed by the crowd as his rightful position was unashamedly usurped.

As Nero finished presenting the final prize of the day to the victorious Blues both his mother and Pallas conferred with him. He glanced at Claudius, then over to the senators’ enclosure and then gestured, with studied melodrama, for quiet; almost a quarter of a million people obeyed the request.

‘People of Rome,’ he declaimed in a voice that was husky and far from strong. ‘My father,’ he paused and indicated with a flourish the bewildered sot oblivious to what was happening as he struggled to read the dots on the dice of his latest throw, ‘invites you all to feast at his expense this evening. Tables have been set up throughout the city and will be supplied with food and drink for four hours. He wishes you the joy of the Augustalia!’ Standing side-on, Nero held one hand to his heart and extended the other out and up and then turned slowly to take in the entire screaming crowd. With a flick of his wrist and a downward motion of his arm, he silenced them and turned to the senators’ enclosure. ‘As a personal favour to him, my father requests the company of all senators of Praetorian or consular rank to join him for an intimate dinner at the palace. He expects you there at your earliest convenience.’

Vespasian swore to himself now that his first meeting with Caenis in nearly three years would have to be postponed.

Nero turned back to the crowd and struck a heroic pose, hands on hips, one foot forward, head held high and eyes gazing valiantly into the distance as his adoptive father was helped to the exit, leaving Paelignus, for once, staring at two large piles of winnings, one silver and the other gold.

‘I can’t imagine that he was in any state to make that invitation,’ Gaius observed, watching Claudius being restrained as he lurched to embrace his natural son as he passed.

‘No, Uncle,’ Vespasian replied, ‘it was Pallas and Agrippina who made it.’

Gaius looked over to Agrippina who now held her son’s right arm high in the air as if he had won a race. ‘Oh dear, dear boy, oh dear.’

‘N-n-none off yoush shup-p-p-ported me!’ Claudius muttered, returning to his favourite topic of the evening and pointing a trembling finger around the palace’s vast triclinium, built by Caligula. ‘N-n-none of yoush wanted a cr-cr-cripple for your Emperor.’

Not one of the hundred or so senators present bothered to gainsay him; instead they picked in embarrassed silence at the delicacies set on the tables before them and tried not to notice the fact that their Emperor had wet himself.

Agrippina laid a soothing hand on Claudius’ arm and plied him with yet more drink as slaves padded about bringing in fresh dishes and clearing those either empty or cold.

Nero, on the couch to Claudius’ right, took no notice of his drunken adoptive father, preferring instead to alternatively feed titbits to his wife and be fed the same by his slightly older friend, Marcus Salvius Otho.

Vespasian and Gaius reclined to the Emperor’s left, sharing their couch with Pallas; both trying to think of any small talk with which to bridge the uncomfortable near-silence now shrouding the room as Claudius took slow, methodical sips of his refilled cup until it was dry. The feast was in its fourth hour and no one, apart from Nero, could have claimed to be enjoying themselves.

‘Where’s Narcissus?’ Vespasian eventually asked, turning to Pallas.

‘He’s gone to his estate near Veii to try to help relieve his gout.’