Britannicus' adopted elder brother, his stepmother's son, Nero, had been declared of age before he became Emperor. In Rome the difference was crucial. For four critical months Britannicus was bound to take second place: the natural son, publicly superseded. But once he came of age, enemies of Agrippina and her son would naturally gravitate to his support. Narcissus, who loved Britannicus as his own, and Caenis, who originally knew his sisters better but had always liked the lad, never discussed what might happen to him. For anyone who had lived under Tiberius and Caligula the possibilities were obvious and grim.
Narcissus had problems of his own. Even before Claudius died he had been ill. In a leftover minister from the previous reign an indisposition was clearly convenient; Narcissus' illness was strongly encouraged by Agrippina and her son. He had never expected a quiet retirement. He withdrew to "convalesce" at Sinuessa on the Bay of Naples. But death was his only tactful course.
Caenis, as the Chief Secretary's most discreet associate, escaped such drastic obligations. Before he left Rome, Narcissus gave to her a handsome gift of cash, probably more than she could have expected to receive under his will, if the will of the Chief Secretary of the previous Emperor had ever stood a chance of being honored by the new one. She never saw him again. Within weeks Narcissus had been flung into prison, badly treated, and hastened to his death. It was said to be suicide, but who could tell? And what difference did it make in any case? Caenis missed him even more than she expected.
She tried to keep an eye on Britannicus. She was pleased with the way he was holding his own. At the Festival of Saturnalia in December, two months before his birthday, the young men at court played dice to be King for the Day. Nero won. To a degree this spoiled the point, which was that someone unused to honors, a slave even, should wear the spangled winter crown. But it avoided unpleasantness; Nero had no concept of allowing himself to lose.
At the evening banquet the King for the Day gave out forfeits, most of them innocuous enough. When it came to Britannicus, who was shy in noisy company and also quite unused to heavy drinking bouts, Nero called him to the center of the great dining hall—an ordeal in itself—then commanded him to sing. Undeterred, Britannicus piped up at once with a stalwart rendering of a theatrical lament: " ‘I am cast out from the King my father's house. . . ." He sang well; he possessed a much better voice than Nero, who was so vain of his own talent. Britannicus had the satisfaction of silencing the room.
A few days later something made him dramatically ill.
Caenis went to see him. "Was it something you ate?"
"No," replied Britannicus, who was developing a taut sense of humor. "Something I sang!"
* * *
Without Narcissus they had nowhere to turn for help. Callistus had always been pitifully cautious, and there were clear signs that Nero was on the verge of dismissing him from his post. Pallas was the only one of the senior freedmen who retained any vestige of power, but only because when she thought it might be useful, he had been Agrippina's lover; for that very reason Pallas could not be asked to protect Britannicus.
Caenis felt helpless. She would have brought herself to beg advice from Vespasian, but he was sixty miles away, living quietly at home in Reate with his wife.
She was positive that somebody had tried to poison the prince. The nearer Britannicus came to fourteen, the more danger threatened him. The first attempt might have been amateur, but next time his enemy might realize a violent laxative was hardly the best medium to choose. Whoever it was would try something different.
Then she found out that the famous poisoner Lucusta, who had been in league with the Empress Livia, had been glimpsed visiting the Palace. Caenis made her way to the old stillroom where she and Vespasian had met. As well as ingredients for cosmetics, there had been plenty of more sinister vials there then. It had been said that when Claudius became Emperor he found and destroyed quantities of poisons collected by Caligula. He threw one great chest into the sea; thousands of dead fish were washed ashore.
But even after Caligula had remodeled the Palace area, the little room still existed. Caenis felt no surprise to discover that its low door now refused to open, held fast by an obviously brand-new lock. She told Britannicus. They shared the information with nobody. There was no point.
"Nero's in love," Britannicus explained. "He's flexing his muscles away from his mama."
"Dear me," Caenis responded, as lightly as she could. "He needs lots to eat, much more sleep, no poetry, and private chats with poisoners should definitely be banned. I take it your sister Octavia is not the favored recipient?"
"Well hardly; Octavia is his wife. He would think it improper. Actë—one of her maids. She's very beautiful."
Caenis knew Actë and thought her a pallid little thing, but she did not want to disillusion an adolescent with her own cynicism. Octavia would not take this kindly. She was that rare bloom, an aristocratic girl who was virtuous; in the way of virtuous people she had no idea of standing up for herself.
"But how does the fair Actë affect you?"
"When Agrippina tried to stop the business, she was shut out from Nero's confidence. So guess who suddenly became her protégé instead?"
"Not you?"
"Isn't it horrible? She threatened to plead with the Guards, as Germanicus' daughter, to give the throne to me as my father's natural heir. There was a great deal of screaming domestically, and my popularity with her lad in purple"—Britannicus still never called Nero by his adopted name—"dived in a way that has only been equaled by the speed with which my dinners get thrown up if I eat with him. If I got you an invitation," Britannicus offered shyly, "Caenis, could you bear to come to the Palace tonight?"
"It's your birthday tomorrow, isn't it?"
He blushed that she should have remembered, though in her concern for him she had it engraved on her memory. "Come tonight; tomorrow may be hopelessly formal. . . ." In fact there was little chance of his being given ceremonial for his special day. "Titus will be with me, of course, but I should like to be able to wave at another friendly face."
* * *
And that was why Caenis, in a headache and a brand-new pair of sandals, attended a state banquet as the guest of the grandson of her patroness. As a boy still, Britannicus was not allowed to have female guests at his own couch. So Caenis found herself a place at the far end of the room, where she could at least watch what happened higher up.
The first thing that would strike any stranger was the noise. Anyone who paused to think about it would become dizzy as the buzz of innumerable different conversations rose all around the hall against a constant background clatter of heavy gold and silver tableware, and the busy chinking of spoons on bowls and jugs on cups. The heat, too, quickly became incredible; many people changed into floating chiffon robes. There was soon a fug of perfumed, sweaty bodies vying with the pungent aromas of simmering wine and waxen flowers.
Caenis had brought her own slave, Demetrius, a treasure Aglaus had found for her, an impassive Thracian who doubled quite competently as table attendant and bodyguard. She took off her sandals, then Demetrius washed and dried her feet; he handed her her napkin while, with a fleeting smile, she took her place among her neighbors. As a compliment to her young host she had spent the afternoon being manicured and pedicured at the baths. She was decked in her best finery—her formal violet-colored dress embroidered at its edges with heavy borders of Etruscan meadow flowers, her hair trapped under a fine gold net, all Antonia's brooches, Vespasian's bangle, and some earrings she had borrowed from Veronica, the size of cavalry harness discs; a girl could do no more.