Robert Fabbri: Rome's lost son

‘We’ll burn them thoroughly, Narcissus,’ Vespasian assured him.

‘You’re right; it will be for the best. If I were a betting man, my money would be on you to survive, Vespasian. And who knows to where a long life might lead.’ He walked forward and knelt before Burrus, extending his neck. ‘There is nothing else to say, my life is at an end.’

It was swift and clean. The sword caught the sun as it was raised and flashed when Burrus sliced it down. With a communal intake of breath from the crowd and a brief grunt from Narcissus, it cut though skin, flesh and bone, in a shock of blood, the edge so honed that Burrus’ arm hardly juddered as the blade swept Narcissus’ head from his shoulders to roll to the feet of the four Praetorians lounging against the tomb. The body stayed kneeling, rigid, for a few moments, disgorging its contents in great spurts as the heart pumped on, weakening with each contraction. The thigh muscles soon gave out and the husk of what had once been the most powerful man in the Empire slumped forward, dead at the entrance to the city that had given him, an ex-slave, his freedom, wealth, influence and, now, bloody execution.

‘Take him away!’ Burrus ordered the four Praetorians.

Vespasian stared at Narcissus’ face as his head was picked up; his eyes were still open. He remembered how the Greek had forced Sabinus to execute Clemens, his own brother-in-law, as part of the bargain that would spare his life; he smiled at the neatness of the retribution and then, as the head was carried away, his eyes rested on the tomb that had, up until now, been obscured by the Praetorians. He stared at it for a few moments and then broke into a laugh.

‘What the fuck are you finding so funny?’ Magnus asked.

Vespasian pointed at the tomb and read the inscription. ‘Valerius Messalla.’

‘So?’

‘Even from beyond the grave that harpy still gets her revenge on Narcissus for ordering her execution. Agrippina wouldn’t allow her to be buried in Augustus’ mausoleum so she was put in her family tomb. Narcissus was executed next to the last resting place of Messalina.’

Magnus blew through his teeth. ‘Sometimes you have to give the gods credit for their sense of humour.’

‘I suppose this is Pallas’ way of doing for Nero what he and Narcissus did for Claudius with the invasion of Britannia, dear boy,’ Gaius concluded as they watched the deputation from Armenia approach the raised tribunal in the Forum Romanum where the Emperor waited, seated on his curule chair, to give his first public judgement of his reign; Pallas, Seneca and Burrus all stood next to the tribunal ready to offer advice to their charge. ‘A proper invasion of Armenia, rather than the half-hearted ones we’ve had so far.’

‘It’s what Tryphaena planned,’ Vespasian agreed. ‘Except that I doubt that her nephew Radamistus has managed to cling on to power if Vologases has done what he intended.’

As the delegation of ten bearded and betrousered Armenians approached Nero, bearing rich gifts, there was a stirring in the crowd. From the opposite end of the Forum, surrounded by Vestal Virgins, came Agrippina. There was a gasp from all who could see her. Her hair was piled high upon her head and flashed and sparkled with jewels; her purple stola flowed down to her ankles and shimmered as if made of silk. But it was not these details that caused the shocked intake of breath: her palla was pure white, chalked white, and had a broad purple stripe, in imitation of a senatorial toga, and in her right hand she held a scroll as if she was about to give a speech. Behind her walked a slave with a curule chair.

‘She’s going to place herself next to the Emperor and receive the delegation as if she were a man,’ Vespasian said as the magnitude of Agrippina’s ambition became apparent.

‘Oh dear, dear boy, oh dear.’ Gaius’ jowls and chins wobbled in outrage at the thought of a woman being so forward. ‘That would be the end: women making decisions in public; unthinkable.’

Seneca and Burrus evidently held the same opinion; they called up advice to Nero as Agrippina came nearer and nearer. Pallas then joined the two advisors, giving what appeared to be a contrary opinion and, after what seemed to be a short but heated debate, he was rebuffed by the Emperor, who rose from his seat and inclined his head to Seneca and Burrus.

As Agrippina approached the tribunal, Nero descended the few steps and met her at the bottom. ‘Mother! How good of you to come and support me.’ He embraced and kissed her, making a great show of filial affection to warm the hearts of the crowd. ‘Over here would be the best place for you to watch from.’ He held her elbow in a firm grip and steered her away from the steps as Seneca indicated to the slave with the chair to place it down by him, next to the tribunal. Agrippina, with a fixed smile on her face, allowed herself to be seated with much courtesy by Burrus as Pallas stepped back, disassociating himself from the struggle for precedence. Agrippina’s eyes flashed first at her son, as he remounted the tribunal, and then at Seneca and Burrus.

‘I think Agrippina has just declared war on her son and his two advisors,’ Vespasian observed to his uncle.

‘I saw the look too, dear boy, and that’s a struggle that a woman cannot win; not even that one. I think Pallas’ days are numbered.’

Vespasian nodded slowly. ‘Yes, it really is Seneca’s time now.’

‘I’m pleased that we have finally got the chance to meet,’ a voice said as Vespasian contemplated the best way to approach Seneca.

He turned and saw a huge man now standing next to him. ‘Caratacus!’

‘I have not presumed to invite you for dinner, Titus Flavius Vespasianus, being ranked only as a mere praetor and you of consular rank.’

Vespasian took his old adversary’s proffered arm and grasped it firmly; it was as if he was clutching an oak branch. ‘I must apologise to you, Tiberius Claudius Caratacus, for neglecting to pay my respects but as I’m sure you’re aware …’

‘You have only been back for a few days and they have been eventful. It’s a sad time for us all.’

Vespasian was surprised by the statement; he could not tell whether Caratacus was referring to Claudius’ death or Nero’s ascension and decided not to respond one way or the other. ‘I’m sure we have much to talk about concerning the conquest of Britannia.’

‘A conquest that is far from over.’

‘So I believe; it should make for an interesting dinner conversation.’ Nero got to his feet to officially welcome the Armenians; Vespasian lowered his voice. ‘I shall be making a tour of mine and my brother’s estates soon. I should be back after the Saturnalia at the end of December, we shall dine then.’

Caratacus inclined his head. ‘It’ll be my pleasure, Vespasian,’ he said before disappearing back into the crowd.

The speeches had been long and formal and the people’s interest had waned as the sun had fallen and the crowds had thinned out to the point that it had become noticeable. With an eye to the possibility of completely losing his audience, Nero interrupted the latest in the line of Armenian delegates in the middle of an impassioned speech about his country’s love of Rome and Rome’s new Emperor and hatred for all things Parthian, which, considering his eastern attire, was raising more than a few eyebrows.

As soon as it was clear that Nero was about to speak the background chatter that the Armenian delegates had been forced to fight against immediately died down. The Golden Emperor got to his feet and graciously indicated to the Armenians to rise from their bellies, from which position they had voluntarily made their cases. For quite a while Nero made a great show of contemplating everything he had heard, scratching his downy beard, rubbing the back of his neck with a pained expression on his face and then gazing into the middle distance over the heads of his adoring audience, seeking inspiration from afar.