‘Where to, Uncle? If he’s condemned he can’t go back to his legion in Pannonia and they’d find him on one of our estates. He’s safest at the moment with Magnus. What we need to do is ensure that he’s not condemned.’
‘And how can we do that?’
‘By taking advantage of the new system of government. You saw it in action last night; it’s Claudius’ freedmen who rule him.’
‘Of course!’ Gaius looked relieved for the first time since being dragged from his bed to hear the bad news. ‘I’ll send a message to Pallas to say that we need to see him as soon as possible after the ceremony this morning. We’ll find out then whether we can still count upon his friendship.’
The people of Rome turned out in their hundreds of thousands to witness their new Emperor receive the oath of allegiance from his now loyal Senate and the Urban Cohorts. That they had regularly laughed at him previously and mocked his malformed body as he was publicly humiliated by his predecessor was now conveniently forgotten by most of the masses crowding in and around the Forum Romanum and along the Via Sacra. However, neither Claudius nor those surrounding him had overlooked the ridiculing of the past, and so the entire Praetorian Guard was stationed along the procession route. They were dressed in full military uniform rather than in togas — their normal attire when on duty within the boundaries of the city — as a reminder to the citizens that it was military power that had elevated Claudius and it was military power that would keep him in his position, and that power was not to be mocked. The sensibilities of the Senate and People of Rome had taken second place to the need to preserve the dignitas of the new Emperor; anyone suspected of making fun of him was dragged away for a thorough lesson in how quickly a man could develop a limp and start drooling uncontrollably.
Resplendent in freshly chalked, gleaming white togas bordered by a thick purple stripe indicating their rank, the Senate led the procession. Their numbers had swelled back up to over five hundred as those who had left the city the day before had hurriedly returned in the hope that the Republican sympathies they had expressed would be forgotten — or at least overlooked — by the new Emperor once they had sworn loyalty to him. The senators walked with slow dignity, looking neither left nor right, holding their heads high and with their left arms crooked before them supporting the folds of their togas. Each eligible magistrate was accompanied by the requisite number of fasces-bearing lictors to add to his stature. Military crowns, won whilst serving in the legions for acts of bravery, were worn by every man entitled to them.
Preceded by twelve lictors, Claudius was borne in an open sedan-chair by sixteen slaves at shoulder height so that all could see him. Behind him, travelling recumbent in a horse-drawn carriage, strewn with cushions and garlanded with flowers, came his wife, Messalina, heavily pregnant but brought out of her confinement for the parade. Her daughter, Claudia Octavia, travelled with her; only eighteen months old, she seemed bewildered by the occasion.
Following them, marching in slow-time, crashing their hobnailed military sandals down hard on the paving stones to the blaring of bucinae, came the Urban Cohorts.
Surrounding Claudius and Messalina were three centuries of the German Imperial Bodyguard, sauntering rather than marching, with their hands on the hilts of their swords behind their flat oval shields and keeping their pale blue eyes fixed on the crowd. Long-haired, full-bearded, be-trousered and each over six feet tall, their barbarian looks presented a striking contrast to the otherwise ordered and very Roman pageant.
The multitudes chanted and cheered themselves hoarse, waving brightly dyed rags or racing-faction colours in the air as the slow procession passed. They lined the streets, crowded the steps of temples and public buildings, balanced on the bases of columns, clung to the pedestals of equestrian statues or heaved themselves up on to window ledges; small children sat on their fathers’ shoulders whilst their more nimble elder siblings scaled any vantage point too small or precarious for an adult.
It seemed that every one of the common people of Rome, free, freed or slave, was there to welcome the new Emperor, not because they particularly disliked the old one or that they particularly liked Claudius; it mattered not to them who was in charge. They had come because they still remembered the games, largesse and feasts that accompanied Caligula’s accession and they wished to earn, through their rapturous support of the new incumbent, a repeat or maybe even a surpassing of that profligate display of generosity. There was, however, a sizeable minority in the crowd with longer memories; they hailed Claudius not in his own right but as the brother of the great Germanicus, the man whom many wished had succeeded Augustus to the Purple.
Claudius, for his part, sat as composed as he could in his chair. He acknowledged the ovation of the crowds with jerking waves and sudden nods, occasionally dabbing his chin with a handkerchief to stem the flow of the drool that, along with his nervous tic, was far more pronounced, betraying his excitement at receiving, for the first time in his fifty-two years, public acclamation.
Messalina ignored the crowd. She kept a firm arm around her small daughter and with her other hand gently caressed her swollen belly. She stared straight ahead towards her husband with a self-satisfied expression on her face.
The procession eventually neared the Senate House in front of which, in an outrageous breach of all precedent, stood Narcissus, Pallas and Callistus.
Doing their best to ignore the affront, the Consuls mounted the steps and positioned themselves to either side of the open doors, ready to welcome their Emperor. The rest of the Senate spread out, in order of precedence, on the steps, leaving a path to the doors for Claudius.
The imperial chair came to a halt at the foot of the Senate House steps.
‘This should be interesting,’ Gaius commented to Vespasian as the sweating slaves stopped and made ready to lower it. It swayed slightly.
A look of panic swept across Claudius’ face and he gripped the chair’s arms.
Vespasian half closed his eyes. ‘I can hardly bear to watch; I don’t know how they got him up there but it must have been in private. I don’t think that they’ve thought about this part.’
‘Wait!’ Narcissus almost shrieked above the din. Claudius looked gratefully at him, twitching almost uncontrollably.
Narcissus mounted the steps and spoke briefly to the Senior Consul. Secundus’ face tensed, he drew himself up and glared at the freedman in outrage. Narcissus muttered a few more words and then raised his brow questioningly, staring with steely eyes at the Consul.
After a few moments Secundus’ shoulders sagged, he nodded almost imperceptibly; he descended the steps towards Claudius and looked up at him. ‘Princeps, there is no need for you to step down to us; we will take the oath here on the steps of the Curia.’
There was stirring and muttering all around Vespasian and Gaius. How dare a jumped-up freedman humiliate the ancient governing body of Rome thus? But no one dared step forward to complain.
‘There’s still one thing that we can take heart in, dear boy,’ Gaius muttered as preparations got under way to take the auspices. ‘However much Claudius’ freedmen seek to draw power to themselves, Claudius will always need members of the senatorial order to command his legions and govern the provinces. Narcissus, Pallas and Callistus can never take that away from us.’
‘Perhaps, but who will decide who gets those posts, them or the Emperor?’ Vespasian glanced over to where Pallas stood, but the freedman’s face, as always, remained neutral.
The auspices were taken and, unsurprisingly, the day was found to be eminently favourable for the business of Rome. The will of the Senate, that Claudius should be emperor, was heralded around the Forum to tumultuous cheering; then the oath of loyalty was administered to the Senate and the Urban Cohorts. This was followed by a proclamation that all the legions of the Empire should swear their loyalty to the new Emperor.