Rome's Lost Son(11)

Claudius pretended to consider the issue for a few moments, melodramatically rubbing his moist chin, while all those present did their best to conceal their embarrassment. ‘It shall be d-d-death. Burrus!’

From behind Caenis, Sextus Afranius Burrus, Agrippina’s choice as the new prefect of the Praetorian Guard, stepped forward and yelled to his men, ‘The execution party will advance!’

Six men with garrottes marched from the ranks while a further dozen made their way to the prisoners and herded them forward. The females and some of the younger males fell to their knees before the embodiment of the Roman State, twitching on his curule chair, and issued pleas for their lives in broken Latin, tearing at their hair and rending their clothes as their executioners ranged in a line behind them.

Vespasian looked at Caratacus, hoping that the man who had been so worthy an adversary would not stoop to the level of some in his retinue; he was not disappointed. The Britannic King stood, erect and proud, disdaining to plead for his life; instead, he stared at the Emperor of Rome with no sign of incredulity at his unbecoming appearance and, when he caught Claudius’ eye, he inclined his head fractionally as if greeting an equal.

Claudius frowned and then held up a hand for silence. ‘B-b-before the reb-b-b-bel dies let him explain his actions.’

Caratacus lifted his hands so that all could see his chains. ‘Had my restraint while I was prosperous matched, rather than fallen short of, my honour and noble birth, I would have entered Rome as your friend and not your captive. You would not have disdained to receive a king descended from such illustrious ancestors, the lord of many nations, and we would have signed a treaty of mutual friendship and peace. However, now my humiliation is as glorious to you as it is degrading to me; but I have brought myself to this pass. I had men, horses, arms and wealth. Who would blame me if I parted with them reluctantly? If you Romans, in your halls of marble, who have so much, choose to become masters of the world, does it follow that we, in our huts of mud, who have comparatively little, should accept slavery? I am here as your prisoner because my pride would not allow me to give you all that I had. But I say this to you, Emperor of the Romans, neither my fall nor your triumph will become famous; I shall be just another king crushed under your heel. My punishment will be followed by oblivion and your victory will be soon forgotten. Whereas, if you grant me my life, I shall be an everlasting memorial of your clemency and bring glory to your name.’

Claudius gawped at the Britannic King, his jaw moving as if masticating stubborn gristle, while weighing these words.

As he vacillated, Agrippina stood and held out her arms to Caratacus. ‘Your eloquence has moved me.’ A tear rolled down her cheek as if in confirmation of the veracity of the statement. She turned to her son. ‘What does Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus, the Prince of the Youth, think?’

Nero had taken his mother’s lead and, with a mighty sob of raw emotion, had begun to weep. ‘I believe, Mother dearest, that my father should show clemency in this one instance. A merciful ruler is a lauded ruler and his praise will be written and sung.’ He looked towards Britannicus as his tutor, Seneca, nodded in sage agreement, the picture of self-satisfaction. ‘I’m sure my brother would agree.’

Britannicus did not meet his stepbrother’s eyes. ‘A ruler who does not punish rebellion will encourage more.’ Heads nodded in agreement with such wisdom from so young a source. ‘I believe Domitius to be wrong.’

There was a hush around the daises and all eyes looked at the Emperor to see if he would reprimand his natural son for such an insult to his adoptive one. Sosibius visibly paled and stared at his charge, his mouth open in horror. Vespasian saw Titus, standing with the other youths of the imperial household, smile involuntarily before taking on the shocked expression of his fellows.

Claudius’ head jerked and he shook as he felt the ice-glare of his wife biting into him. Nero fell to his knees as melodramatically as the wronged lover in a comedy, his tears now streaming down his face. He took the supplication pose with easy perfection as Seneca placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘Father, don’t let my brother repudiate me.’ Nero flung his head back, one hand running through his luxuriant flame curls and then rested the back of his other hand on his brow before addressing the heavens. ‘As the gods are my witness, I ceased to be a member of the Domitii when you adopted me, Father.’

Claudius’ throat spasmed as he tried to form a word; eventually it exploded from him: ‘Britannicus!’ It echoed around the walls. ‘Apologise!’