"Aha! New ladylove?" he cried, stopping in surprise. Britannicus blushed; he was old enough to be interested, yet young enough to be terrified of women.
Caenis tried to adopt the air of a sophisticated, extremely expensive witch. "You must be Titus!" she divined coolly. "Titus Flavius Vespasianus, son of Titus, voting tribe Quirina, citizen of Reate."
Both children were deeply impressed.
"This is the face-detector?" Titus demanded of Britannicus eagerly.
Britannicus replied with a nicely suave, secretive smile. He was learning fast; it was wonderful to watch. "Just a friend," he tormented the other, who was bursting with curiosity. "Going to give me a second opinion, I hope."
Caenis endured the odd experience of being eyed appraisingly by Vespasian's teenaged son.
* * *
It turned out that Narcissus was still worrying over his dynasty, pointless though that was beginning to appear. He had called in a physiognomist, someone who would tell Britannicus' fortune from his face. Since Narcissus entered the room almost immediately with this character, Caenis had no opportunity to say to the boys just what she thought of that.
The seer was an overweight greasy Chaldean in a shiny emerald overshirt, his knuckles carbuncled with mysterious scarab rings. He wore bright green laced-up pointed shoes: Caenis had made it her lifelong rule never to trust a man with peculiar footwear.
Narcissus, who knew just what she would think about this business, avoided meeting her eye; he was obviously hoping Caenis would go away. She crossed her ankles calmly, looked dignified, and stayed. When Britannicus noticed how Narcissus was flapping he winked at Caenis again. She had taught him to wink. His upbringing had been first at the hands of slaves hand-picked by Messalina as easy to manipulate, then seedy nominees chosen by Agrippina out of spite; it had been uninspiring, and totally neglected useful social accomplishments. Still, he could sing, and he did; no one would ever be a complete failure while he could sing.
Britannicus was poignantly nervous of having his face read. Narcissus and the physiognomist at last finished fiddling about, setting a stool in the best light. Caenis placed herself behind their reluctant subject, resting her light protective hands on his shoulders and staring belligerently at the Chaldean over the top of the prince's head. Young Titus scrambled over and knelt beside the stool to get a good view of what went on. As Caenis said to them afterward, it was sensible to be nervous of someone who smelled of such a strange mixture of patchouli and onions.
The physiognomist stood in silence, looking at Britannicus from directly in front. He came close, giving the Emperor's son a full blast of his onions, then lifted Britannicus' chin on one finger. At a younger age Britannicus would certainly have bitten him. At thirteen he was, thank the gods, too proud.
The physiognomist stepped back. Caenis and Britannicus stopped holding their breath. The Chaldean turned to Narcissus. "No," he said offhandedly, and prepared to leave.
Even Narcissus seemed nonplussed.
Titus, who was lively as a monkey in a warehouse of soft fruit, was bursting to ask a question, but he was forestalled. Narcissus had not been a bureaucrat for thirty years in order to be baffled by the mysteries of Ur. "No?" he challenged briskly. The pained monosyllable indicated that this verdict was too short, too vague, and much too expensive for the Privy Purse.
"No," repeated the Chaldean. Sensing a proposed abatement in his fee, he condescended to explain: "He will never succeed his father. I presume that is what you wish to know?"
It seemed to Caenis that anyone with the smallest knowledge of Claudian family life—or as much awareness of recent history as could be gleaned from skimming lightly through the obituaries in the Daily Gazette—would be able to make that prophecy.
"Are you sure?" Narcissus was bound to be disappointed.
"Certainly!" The man brushed him aside with an irritation that Caenis quite enjoyed.
He was heading for the door, but Narcissus liked to get his money's worth from specialists. "So what do you expect to happen to him instead?"
A prince learns to put up with impertinence; Britannicus did not move.
The physiognomist gave Narcissus a pitying look. "He will live out his span, sir, as we all must, then as we all must he will die."
"How long is the span?" urged the Chief Secretary harshly.
This time Caenis felt the long-limbed boy tense beneath her hands. At once she stated curtly, "Britannicus prefers not to know!"
The physiognomist seemed to like her firmness; he nodded to the boy. Some things were confidential to the victim, apparently, even when the Privy Purse was footing the bill. Narcissus had to subside.
Only when he reached the door did the man turn back. "Of course," he said, "the other will."
There was a small pause. He had hardly glanced at Titus the whole time. No one liked to risk offending the man again, but when the attendant started to lift the door curtain, so she thought they were going to lose him, Caenis demanded patiently, "Titus will what?"
The Chaldean did not hesitate. "He will succeed his father."
"As what?"
"As whatever his father is or becomes!" Even Caenis was making his hackles rise. "I cannot tell you that, lady, without seeing the father's face."
Caenis laughed. She pointed to her Sabine friend's son, then told the man in ringing tones, "There! Is there no imagination in the Chaldees? Add a nose like a boxer on the brink of retirement, and you have it."
For the first time the man showed that he too could smile. "Ah, that face!" he mocked. (He was not being paid for Titus, let alone his Sabine papa.) "That would be the face of a nobody."
Then at once Caenis wished she had not asked, because although she was certain Vespasian himself would have roared with delight, the poor child kneeling beside Britannicus was bitterly upset. She was so concerned about Titus, it caught her off guard when the Chaldean asked quietly, "And your own face, my lady? Will you not ask?"
Yet she found an answer for him: "Oh, that has been prophesied," said Caenis, with a slight smile. "Of my face one has said, ‘It can never be upon the coinage.' "
"He spoke well!" observed the Chaldean, who obviously appreciated a pointless remark.
TWENTY-SIX
The face-detector was quite right: Britannicus did not succeed his father.
The light that had cheered the early years of Claudius' reign went out with Messalina's death. He allowed Agrippina, who was a strong, strong-willed woman in the single-minded political mold of her family, to govern the Empire. She did it as ruthlessly as she governed Claudius himself. And when Britannicus was in sight of his coming-of-age, Claudius died.
The Emperor's death was not immediately announced. Not until Agrippina, pretending to suffer inconsolable grief, had gathered into her grim clutch all of her husband's natural children—Claudia Antonia, Octavia, and of course Britannicus. Once they had been secured at the Palace, her own son, Nero, was wheeled out in a carriage and presented to the Praetorians as their new Caesar.
Claudius had left a will, but it was never read in public.
* * *
When his father died, the young prince Britannicus was thirteen years and eight months old. He ranked as a child—though not for much longer. That was significant. It was a principle of Roman law that between the ages of seven and fourteen a boy obtained limited legal rights, those at least that were plainly for his benefit and not restricted to needing the approval of his guardian. At fourteen he reached a more specific maturity; then he could marry, vote in local assemblies, become liable for military service, and manage his own property. The milestone of entering public affairs normally came at twenty-five, but by fourteen he was a person of account. Until then, a mere child.