‘I think that you noticing me alive in the Senate House this morning nullifies my oath.’
Vespasian still refused to look at Corvinus. ‘Seeing as you have miraculously come back from the dead, tell me, Corvinus, where are you living in this life? I seem to remember that in your last life you lived near my brother; that’s how you inveigled your way into his confidence and found out the whereabouts of Clementina so you could take her to Caligula. Are you still there?’
‘On the Aventine? Yes. What’s that-’
‘East Aventine?’
‘Yes.’
Vespasian spun round and fixed Corvinus with a look of naked hatred. ‘You haven’t been dead to me at all, have you, Corvinus? You tried to have me killed and make it look like I was a victim of a brotherhood takeover. After I had Pallas spare your life, I consider that to be extremely ungrateful behaviour.’
‘It’s a humiliation to be in the debt of a man as low-born as you.’
‘How did you know I’d be there in Magnus’ tavern at that time, Corvinus?’
Corvinus sneered, turned on his heel and walked away.
‘What was all that about, dear boy?’ Gaius asked, almost shouting over the growing tumult.
‘That, Uncle, was about a bastard who refuses to stay dead. I can see that he’s going to need a little help next time.’
It seemed to Vespasian that Nero would soon have the whole of Rome constantly shedding floods of tears as he watched the weeping Emperor, with Britannicus and Octavia Claudia following, bearing the casket containing Claudius’ ashes to Augustus’ mausoleum the following morning. Set on the bank of the Tiber on the north of the Campus Martius, the circular marbled building was capped with a conical roof that supported a statue of the great man who had commissioned it; it was the final resting place of all Rome’s Emperors and most members of their family. As Nero passed under the ring of cypress trees and then on through the gate guarded by two pink granite obelisks, Vespasian reflected that yet another member of the Julio-Claudians had failed to live out their natural life; even Augustus was rumoured to have been poisoned by his wife Livia so as to ensure that her son Tiberius inherited, and here was history repeating itself, although this time it had been a feather rather than a fig which had been the poisoned vessel.
The funeral party disappeared into the gloom of the interior and the people howled out their grief, not for Claudius’ demise, but for their new Emperor’s loss. They cared not for Britannicus nor for Octavia Claudia; they only had eyes for the dazzling Golden Emperor, as he now had become in their minds. They mourned with him now as they had mourned with him throughout the morning while he had eulogised Claudius from the podium next to his funeral pyre. Surrounded by actors wearing the funeral masks of the imperial family, he had praised Claudius for his scholarship, his extension of the Empire, his legal aptitude, all in the very vaguest of terms, careful that the words he used would not make it impossible to better each of Claudius’ achievements in short order. Claudius’ vices and afflictions had been forgotten, as had been his natural children, previous wives, powerful mother, Antonia, and grandmother, Livia. Nothing had been said that could overshadow or reflect badly on Nero and Agrippina. She sat to one side of the podium, on a dais, at the head of the women of Rome’s élite, Flavia and Caenis to the fore.
And the people had loved Nero; they had loved him because he made them do so by his seemingly open personality and his ability to express his emotions. But those who knew him and those who had seen him up close understood, like Vespasian did, that was just an act, a veneer.
And so, as the Senate and the people of Rome took their oath to the new Emperor, once he had emerged from the mausoleum with his duty to his predecessor done, those who appreciated the truth of the matter repeated the ritual formula with apprehension, wondering just what the false exterior concealed and hoping that, whatever it was, it would do them no harm. However, some, Vespasian included, had paid attention to what Nero’s natural father, Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus, had said upon being congratulated on the birth of his son: that a child of his and Agrippina would have a detestable nature and would be a public danger. It was with this knowledge and the firm belief that the Empire could not stand another Julio-Claudian who fitted that description that, once the ceremony had finished and Nero had been cheered off, Vespasian walked towards the Greens’ stables to meet Magnus and Lucius, smiling to himself and thinking of ways to keep safe during what would be, to say the least, an unpredictable reign.
‘Well, that seemed to go very well, I’d say,’ Magnus said as he, Lucius and Vespasian walked across the rectangular exercise yard, lined with stables and workshops, at the heart of the Greens’ stable complex. He looked with admiration at the horses being exercised, either singly or in teams of two, three or four. ‘Eusebius seems to be a very reasonable man.’
Vespasian found it hard to completely agree with that observation. ‘It’s a fairish price,’ he said grudgingly.
‘A fairish price? The Greens pay for the cost of five horses’ upkeep and training and you get to keep sixty per cent of their winnings; I’d say that is beyond fair, never mind fairish.’
‘I wanted seventy-five.’
‘You wanted ninety when you arrived here and, had me and Lucius not have explained that a figure like that would just make you look stupid, you would have been slung out on your arse as a time-waster; in the nicest possible way that a senator can be slung out on his arse, obviously.’
‘Obviously. But now the deal’s done I think I’m going to enjoy it.’
‘Then you had better make good your promise to Malichus,’ Magnus reminded him, ‘otherwise there’ll be nothing but bad luck following your team. It normally takes three or four months for a team to settle in so you should have it done by February; they won’t race before then.’ He clutched his right thumb between the fingers of his right hand and spat as a precaution against the evil-eye cursing the team that he hoped would make him a fortune on their first outing.
‘I’ll do it in the next few days while Pallas is pleased with me and Nero’s in a beneficent mood. But first I need to go to the Forum and watch our new Emperor try his hand at eastern diplomacy.’ Passing out through the stable’s gates he left Lucius a small token of his gratitude and, with Magnus, headed across the Campus Martius, past the Flammian Circus to the Porta Fontinalis, in the shadow of the Capitoline Hill, where the Via Flammia entered the city.
‘How dare you block my way!’
Vespasian instantly recognised the voice emanating from within a crowd obstructing the Porta Fontinalis.
‘I’ve been summoned by Agrippina to pay my respects to the new Emperor.’
Vespasian could not see Narcissus but his imperious voice, so used to command, was unmistakable.
‘And I’ve orders to detain you here, Narcissus, until the Praetorian prefect arrives.’
Vespasian assumed that was the voice of an Urban Cohort centurion in command of the gate’s watch as he pushed his way through the crowd to see what was occurring.
‘You should refer to me by my title of imperial secretary, centurion.’ Narcissus’ voice had dropped; a sign, Vespasian well knew, of deadly threat.
But the centurion was not intimidated. ‘My orders are to keep you here while I send a message to Prefect Burrus and, specifically, not to use your former title.’
Narcissus’ face registered a hint of fear as Vespasian succeeded in pushing through the crowd to get next to the freedman, seated in a one-man litter; his expression brightened somewhat upon seeing Vespasian. ‘You must help me through the gate, Vespasian.’ He indicated to the four Praetorian Guardsmen accompanying his litter, lounging in the sun against one of the tombs lining the Via Flammia and making no effort to progress through the gate. ‘My escort refuses to overrule this … this …’ He struggled to find a word to describe the centurion. ‘Underling.’