Rome's Lost Son(116)

Titus bowed his head in acknowledgement of his father’s wishes.

Vespasian then placed the bulla on the altar and arranged around it five small clay statuettes that he took from a cupboard next to it. He stretched his arms out, palms upwards, muttered a short prayer, and then filled a shallow bowl with wine from the altar jug. Standing with the bowl in his right hand he poured a libation over the altar in front of the largest of the figures, the lar familiaris, which represented the founder of the family. He then motioned his son to join him next to the altar and gave him a sip of wine, before draining the rest himself and setting down the bowl.

Removing the toga from his head he turned to address the crowd of clients watching the ceremony, Gaius, Magnus with three of his erstwhile brethren, Tigran, Sextus and Cassandros, amongst them; Flavia sat before them, tears in her eyes, with her arm around their daughter – Domitian had been judged too ill-behaved to attend – and Britannicus stood next to them. ‘I ask all you here to witness my decision to grant adult status to my eldest son.’

There was a chorus affirming that was indeed the case.

Vespasian then signalled to Hormus, who stepped forward with a plain white toga virilis, the sign of an adult male citizen, and began to drape it around Titus. When Hormus was done, Titus covered his head with a fold of his toga and, standing in the prayer position with his palms turned to the heavens, pledged himself to the house of Flavius and to its guardian god, Mars.

As the prayer was recited, Vespasian looked over to Britannicus; tears were streaming down his long face, inherited from his father, as he watched his friend complete the ceremony that, even at his young age he still had the maturity to realise, he would never, for political reasons, be allowed to celebrate.

Vespasian wondered for a moment what sort of emperor the doomed boy would have made and then remembered that he was the product of a fool and a power-mad whore. Britannicus was evidently no fool and so therefore, unless nature was going to be completely overruled, once he fully matured sexually he would probably display all the licentiousness of his mother, Messalina; perhaps he even had the potential of making Caligula look like a man with nothing more than a mildly overactive libido.

As Titus came to the end of his prayer, Vespasian dismissed the thought from his mind as irrelevant: no one could ever know what sort of emperor Britannicus would have made.

Rome was in a festive mood, ready to celebrate the Augustalia. Wreaths of flowers and laurels adorned the many statues of Augustus throughout the city and crowds of loyal subjects of the Julio-Claudians were waiting to give thanks for the founder of the dynasty’s victorious return from the Civil War in the East, sixty-three years previously. All were heading for the Porta Capena, the gate that led out to the Via Appia. There, in the Temple of Fortuna Redux on the slope of the Caelian Hill just above the gate and in the shadow of the Appian Aqueduct, they would watch their Emperor, in his role as the Flamian Augustales, lead the prayers and sacrifices to his deified predecessor. But this was just a prelude to the main events of the day: the racing and the feasting.

‘You needn’t worry any more, Vespasian,’ Britannicus said as they headed down the Quirinal Hill with Vespasian’s and Gaius’ clients following in attendance. ‘Titus has nothing to fear from his association with me now that he has become a man.’

Vespasian failed to see how the difference in rank would protect his son walking next to him, upright and proud in his toga virilis. ‘Agrippina is a spiteful woman.’

‘She is; but Seneca, Domitius’ and my tutor, is not a spiteful man.’ Britannicus was evidently still unable to refer to Nero by his adoptive name.

‘But what power does he have?’ Gaius asked as Magnus and his erstwhile brothers, beating a path for the company through the holiday crowds, slowed in the face of the bottleneck at the entrance to Augustus’ Forum, clogged with citizens laying small gifts at the feet of his statues.

Britannicus looked up at Gaius. ‘It’s not so much that he has power, it’s that he has influence and he’s using that influence to ensure that he will retain the luxuries that accompany it for as long as possible. Seneca knows Domitius’ character only too well; who could fail to spot his excesses?’

‘Your father, for a start,’ Titus pointed out.

‘My father’s an idiot and will be dead by this time tomorrow because of it.’ Britannicus spoke without a trace of emotion. ‘But Seneca has managed to persuade Domitius that if he wants to rule for the rest of his natural life, rather than just five years like Caligula did, then he will need to restrain himself when it comes to his subjects’ lives, wives and assets. If he does so then he’ll be free to live a life of artistic indolence, seeing as he’s starting to persuade himself that his mediocre artistic talent is the greatest ever bestowed upon any man. Meanwhile, Seneca, Pallas and Burrus take the policy decisions that they are all far more qualified to make rather than a seventeen-year-old youth who’s not allowed to let go of his mother’s skirts because he is her only remaining political asset and is tied to her by incest.’ The party moved on again as the entrance to Augustus’ Forum cleared; all around, people were shouting praise to the man who had brought about the longest period of peace free from civil strife that had been known for more than a hundred and fifty years. ‘When Domitius has me murdered the deed will only be acceptable if it’s seen to be for the good of Rome. But if he kills Titus or any other of Rome’s sons along with the one already lost then he will be seen as someone who acted out of spite, like his mother, rather than someone who acted, reluctantly, out of necessity. Seneca will make sure that Domitius understands that; so Titus is safe.’