The Course of Honour Read online

  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.

  XXVI

  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 mould 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 which 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.

  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 left-over 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 honoured 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 spoilt the point, which was that someone unused to honours, 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 centre 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 humour. ‘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 realise 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 remodelled the Palace area, the little room still existed. Caenis fel
t 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 favoured 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 equalled 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 amongst her neighbours. 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-coloured 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.

  Nero dominated the top table: that unpleasant neck, the chubby jowls, the beardless blond good looks that appeared washed out and grey. His mother, Agrippina, was there, of course, queening it in a tiara and gold silk; and Octavia, the out-of-place teenaged Empress, who hardly spoke. Caenis recognised also Nero’s two tutors, such markedly different men: Seneca, who made a decent stab at writing the speeches Nero so woodenly declaimed, and Burrus, the blunt soldier who commanded the Guard. There was no sign of Actë, though people spoke of her. Someone said, ‘A common girl who bears no grudges – she’s ideal!’

  Britannicus and various other young sprigs of nobility were consigned to a less luxurious table to one side, in what passed for the old-fashioned, austere way. It was probably a deliberate insult. At other low tables around the arc of the room were all the sycophants, time-servers and snobs a palace dining room expects.

  Everything seemed fairly routine. There were the usual incidents of slaves dropping overloaded dishes so pints of sticky brown liquid sprayed across the central serving-floor. A woman fainted in the heat from the lamps and food-warmers and was carried out head first. Caenis made the mistake of accepting an hors-d’oeuvre which looked like eggs in fish-pickle relish – fairly safe, she surmised – but which turned out to be anonymous crustaceans, boiled to a fibrous mush and floating in sadly coral-coloured grease. On the whole all the food was overcooked, overspiced and oversalted, then it had stood too long before serving so none of it was warm. Demetrius did manage to commandeer her a decent artichoke in hot-herb sauce; the calf’s tongue in fennel cream was genuinely tasty and the white bread rolls were not unbearably hard. Yet in the strict tradition of large-scale catering, all the meat was carved too thinly and all the vegetables were limp.

  Caenis began to long for a plain honey omelette in a bowl she knew was clean.

  Most of the time she could not quite see Britannicus. However, she was able to watch the slave who tasted his food. Standing behind Britannicus’ couch this man appeared to be doing a thorough job. He took proper mouthfuls, and chewed them down well before he gave Britannicus anything to eat. The mushrooms which had dispatched the boy’s father appeared to have been deleted from the chefs’ repertoire.

  Nero looked in ghastly good form. He was seventeen, an uncouth age at which most Romans were kept decently out of sight by the parents they oppressed. He did try to demonstrate the rudiments of culture – sculpture, singing, writing poetry, recitation, the harp – but it all turned out too laboured. He had no natural artistry. Caenis, who so loved music, was hoping that he would not sing tonight.

  The slaves had carried out the serving-tables once; they now brought in others with the fruit and the dessert. She risked a dish of custard, mainly because she was attracted by the pretty green glass in which it came; she regretted it at the first curdled mouthful, then listlessly nibbled a pear. She still had a headache and she wanted to go home.

  By this time she was feeling the melancholy irritation of a woman on her own at a party who has realised she is twice the age of most of her fellow guests. This was a young man’s court. She had strayed into a world she found shallow and loud. Foolish laughter surrounded her – shrieking girls in off-the-shoulder necklines and youths who were almost too drunk to finish a sentence trying to tell long-winded pointless jokes. One of Veronica’s huge earrings was pinching her ear. She even experienced a faint trace of hostility towards her young host.

  The attendants, by now red-faced and too harassed even to try to be polite, were carrying out the half-demolished pastry towers; others were sweeping up the litter of stalks and peel and pips. Standards amongst both diners and attendants were definitely starting to relax.

  Nero had poured a formal libation at the start of the meal; there had been wine mixed with honey between each course; now the heavy drinking would start. Short-legged boys, puffing with exertion, struggled in with giant decorated cauldrons of steaming wine infused with cinnamon and herbs. Trays of cups, flagons of cold water, honey to mix – all the apparatus of preparing toasts to the niceties of personal taste, had already appeared. There were amphorae, sooty with age, leaning in rows behind the imperial couch. One or two people took advantage of the lull to leave the room to attend to personal needs. Caenis stayed where she was for the time being; as soon as she could she intended to slip away for home.

  There was a pause. Following ancient Roman custom slaves paraded round the room with the imperi
al family’s household gods. The small bronze statues of dancing lares held up their horns of plenty as gracefully as those in any ordinary home. They were left on the low table immediately in front of the group of youngsters amongst whom Britannicus dined. Now that the room had cleared somewhat, Caenis could just make him out.

  A ruffle of movement, a wave of anticipation, started at the top table then rolled along each arm of the room, as the flagon-bearers served the first wine. The noise, which was by then making her head throb at every movement, dimmed slightly as people stopped their animated chatter to watch the mixing of their drinks. Skilful slaves poured the hot crimson liquor through funnel-shaped strainers in a hiss of aromatic steam; others followed with the cold water in a practised routine, providing whatever was required by each diner almost without bothering to listen for the request; sometimes they got it wrong and caused a spat of indignation. There was a certain amount of extraneous activity as people summoned rosewater and napkins to wash the final stickiness of the dinner from their hands. One or two women idly poked at ringlets unwinding from their padded towers of hair.

  While his taster was occupied with his goblet of wine, Britannicus rose from his couch to wave to Caenis as he had promised, down the length of the room. He looked happier; she smiled. He accepted the goblet, then stayed on his feet – a tall, slight figure with rather too big ears like his father, but that sweet-natured grin. As the young prince raised his cup to her, she felt her heart warm. She was glad she had come, for his sake.

  She noticed Nero pause in his conversation, critical perhaps that the young man should openly salute his grandmother’s ex-slave. She shook her head at Britannicus, but he only glanced at his adoptive brother and deliberately rebelled.

  The wine was too hot for him. Before he drank, he held out the cup to be topped up with cold water by a waiting slave. At once he took it back, tipped it casually to the watching Emperor, then raised it – formally, between both his long hands – to his lady guest. She had been kind to him, and Britannicus did not forget. Then he drank.