‘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.