‘Because your adopted father wishes you to think on your obligations, Nero. That’s why.’
‘But I want to talk about poetry.’ His voice was plaintive and slightly husky. Cato risked a look at the tutor and his two students now that their attention was on each other. The boy, Nero, was effeminate-looking with a weak jaw and a slight pout. His eyes were dark and expressive and he regarded his tutor with an intense gaze. A short distance from him Britannicus sat resting his head in his hands as he stared down at the gravel, apparently uninterested. The tutor looked vaguely familiar and then in a flash Cato remembered him. Eurayleus. He had been one of the palace tutors when Cato was a child. Eurayleus had been tasked with the education of the children of the imperial family. As such he had little to do with the handful of other tutors who taught the sons of the palace officials and the children of the hostages that Rome kept in comfort while their elders were required to maintain treaties or apply pressure in Rome’s interest. As Cato recalled his childhood he could well remember the aloof manner in which the tutor had regarded the rest of the palace staff. Their paths had only crossed once, when a young Cato had been running up and down the corridor outside the tutor’s door and had received a beating.
‘We will talk about poetry another time,’ Eurayleus said firmly. ‘Today’s subject for discussion has been decided by the Emperor and neither you nor I can challenge his decision.’
‘Why?’ asked Nero.
‘You can ask that question when you become Emperor,’ the tutor replied tersely.
‘If he becomes Emperor,’ said Britannicus. ‘Ahenobarbus is only the adopted son. I am the natural son. I should be first in line of succession.’
Nero turned to his stepbrother with a frown. ‘My name is Nero.’
Britannicus shrugged. ‘That’s what some say. But in your heart you will always be what you were first named. And to me, too, you will always be Ahenobarbus.’
Nero glared at him for a moment before he spoke. ‘Always quick to try and cut me down to size, aren’t you? Well, you may be the natural son of the Emperor, but your mother was most unnatural. So I wouldn’t set too much store by the Emperor’s affection for you, little Britannicus.’
‘My mother is dead. She died because she was a fool. She let the power of the imperial palace go to her head.’ Britannicus smiled faintly. ‘How long do you think it will be before your mother does the same? Then what will become of you? At least I have common blood with my father. What do you have?’
Cato could not help looking at the younger boy, surprised by the confidence and knowingness in the tone of his voice.
‘Boys! Boys!’ the tutor broke in with a wave of his hand. ‘That’s enough. You must stop this bickering. It is not worthy of the Emperor’s heirs. What would he say if he could see you now?’
‘S-s-stop it!’ Nero mimicked and let a little bit of spittle dribble from his lips as he stuttered, and then giggled.
The tutor frowned at him and held up his hand to quieten the boy. ‘That is ungracious of you. Let there be no more digressions from today’s lesson, do you hear?’
Nero nodded, struggling to stifle a smile.
‘Very well. The subject today is responsibility. Especially the responsibility of an emperor to his people. Now, I could lecture you on the matter, but being Greek, I prefer to deal with this by way of protracted dialogue.’
Cato heard a long soft hiss of expelled air come from Macro at the tutor’s words.
‘Let’s start with you, Nero, since you are in high spirits today. What do you think are the primary responsibilities of an emperor?’
Nero folded his hands together and thought for a moment before he spoke. ‘His first duty is to make Rome safe, obviously. Rome must be defended from its enemies, and its wider interests must be protected. Then the emperor must look after his people. He must feed them, but not just with food. He must give them his love, like a father loves his children.’
Britannicus sniffed derisively, but Nero ignored him and continued.
‘He must teach them the important values: love of Rome, love of art, love of poetry.’
‘Why these things?’
‘Because without them we are nought but animals that scratch a living and then die unmissed.’
Britannicus shook his head. The movement was caught by the tutor.
‘You have something to say?’
‘I do.’ Britannicus looked up defiantly. ‘Ahenobarbus is too influenced by that new personal teacher of his, Seneca. What is poetry to the common people? Nothing. They need food, shelter and entertainment. That’s what they want from their emperor. He can do his best to give some of them that, but not all. So what is his duty? It’s simple. His duty is to uphold order and fight chaos. He needs to defend Rome from those within as much as from the barbarians who live beyond our frontiers.’
‘That is a very cynical line of thought, young Britannicus,’ the tutor commented.
‘I am young. But I am learned beyond my years.’
‘Yes, your precocity has been noted.’
‘And not approved of.’ Britannicus smiled coldly.
‘There is a wisdom that comes with age and no other way. Until you have walked in the boots of other men, you are not wise. Only well read.’
Britannicus regarded the man with a world-weary expression. ‘Perhaps if you had walked in my boots you would understand my cynicism. I have a family that is not a family but a colony of killers. I have a father who no longer treats me like a son. I have no mother, and I have a … brother who will surely kill me if ever he becomes Emperor.’ The boy paused. ‘Walk in those boots, Eurayleus, and see if you do not have to live on your wits.’
The tutor stared at him with a sad expression and then drew a deep breath. ‘Let us continue. Nero thinks that the common man can have poetry in his life.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Nero said fervently.
‘Does he have this capacity innately? Or must it be taught to him?’ The tutor turned to Macro and Cato as if noticing them for the first time. ‘Take these two men. Soldiers. They know little but the art of destruction, which is the opposite of knowledge. They know weapons and drill, and spend their leisure time in mindless bouts of drinking, womanising and visits to the arena. Is that not so, soldier? You there!’ He pointed at Macro. ‘Answer me.’
Macro thought a moment and nodded. ‘Pretty much sums it up, sir.’
‘You see? How can you expect to teach such men to appreciate the finer sentiments of poetry? How can you induce them to know the subtle shades of expression upon which the finest literature turns? They are a class apart. Why, look at them. See those black eyes? Not content with their dullard existence of the mind, they compound their denigration by engaging in brawls. What hope is there of them finding their way to the great works of the finest thinkers? I doubt that they can even read. You there, the other man. Tell me, have you ever read the works of Aristotle?’
‘Which, sir? The Poetics, Politics, Ethics, Metaphysics, Nicomachean Ethics or De Anima?’
The tutor stared at Cato for a moment, nonplussed.
Britannicus chuckled. ‘Please continue, Eurayleus. Your line of argument is most intriguing.’
The tutor struggled to his feet and gestured to his pupils. ‘Come, let’s find somewhere more, er, private, to continue the discussion.’
He walked straight between Cato and Macro without meeting their eyes. Nero followed him, pausing only to wink at Cato and pat him on the shoulder before he left the enclosure. The smaller boy was slower to get up and he came and stood before Cato and stared up at him.
‘What is your name, Praetorian?’
‘Capito, sir.’
‘Capito … You are rather different to the other Praetorians, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’
‘Yes you do. I shall watch you. I don’t forget a face. I may need you one day. Tell me, Capito, if you could choose your new emperor when Claudius dies, who would it be? Me or Ahenobarbus?’