Rome's Lost Son(137)

Vespasian choked back an involuntary guffaw at the mad logic of the sentence as Pallas got to his feet.

‘Princeps, you are just and merciful and I submit to your will.’ With a bow to Nero while completely ignoring Agrippina, who was still staring at her son in horror, Pallas left the room, his career in Rome over.

Nero brightened as the Greek’s footsteps receded. ‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, celebrating my brother’s coming of age. We shall have a toast; charge our cups!’

Female slaves who had been waiting in the shadows busied themselves making sure that each of the guests had sufficient before retreating back whence they came.

‘To my brother’s birthday tomorrow!’ Nero shouted, before draining his wine.

All the guests followed his example with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Britannicus, his eyes glazed with remembrance of public buggery, took no more than a mouthful.

But that was enough to make Nero smile as the boy swallowed. ‘Which he will never see,’ he added, watching Britannicus intently.

Vespasian’s innards lurched and he looked at Britannicus who broke into a cold smile of acceptance as he threw another gulp down his gullet, his eyes fixed on Nero, defiance and hatred in them. Behind him a slave woman was staring with the same intensity as she had stared at Claudius while he died; the woman was rewarded by a sudden spasm. Titus grabbed Britannicus’ cup from his hand as the spasm repeated, confused by what was happening to his friend who now struggled but failed to draw breath; a rattle emanated from his constricted throat. Titus gaped at him, his face tensed in horror as realisation dawned. Five, ten, fifteen heartbeats the ghastly agony continued as Britannicus’ eyes bulged and his lips blued, twitching as they struggled to form a word; his hand grasped Titus’ wrist and pushed the poisoned cup up towards his mouth. His lips resolved into a final, twisted smile.

Once more for Vespasian, time’s chariot slowed and he felt himself rising as he watched Britannicus slump slowly back, his hand releasing its grip. His heart pounded slow and bass in his ears as Titus stared at the contents of the cup, registering just what it was; he looked down at his friend’s lifeless eyes, fixed upon him, before casting Nero a glare of unvarnished loathing. Vespasian screamed, inchoate, as he tried to fly across the room, watching Titus’ hand rise even further and the cup slowly approaching his lips. He could see it tilt and the wine within it touch the rim as Titus’ mouth opened. The cup rested on his lower lip and the poison began to flow onto his tongue; Vespasian was sure that he saw his son’s throat contract with a swallow as his right hand smashed the cup away from Titus’ mouth and time cranked back up to her unrelenting speed almost in mockery of how long Titus had to live.

‘An antidote!’ Vespasian screamed at the slave woman, vaguely aware of laughter behind him. ‘What is the antidote, woman?’ He grabbed Titus, who was staring down into the pained and dead eyes of Britannicus.

The woman stood motionless, looking towards Nero.

‘Two for the price of one, Locusta,’ Nero managed to say through his mirth, ‘very good.’

Vespasian screamed again for the antidote as Caratacus grabbed Locusta by the throat and lifted her, shrieking, off her feet; the jug she carried crashed to the ground. ‘Obey me, woman, and nobody else, for it is in my hands that your miserable life lies. The antidote.’

Locusta reached into a bag hanging from her waist and brought out a phial; Caratacus took it and threw her away to land with a cracking of bones on the hard mosaic floor.

Titus spasmed as Vespasian grabbed the antidote, ripping the cork out with his teeth. He slammed his son’s head down onto the still chest of Britannicus and tipped the contents of the phial down his open throat. Once empty he threw it away, pinched Titus’ nose and pressed his mouth shut; there was another spasm but then he swallowed. Vespasian looked into Titus’ eyes willing him to live, as Nero’s laughter still echoed in his ears; no one else made a sound apart from Locusta groaning over a broken arm. Titus’ eyes widened in pain, the pupils so dilated there was no colour in them, just black and white. There was another spasm but weaker this time and his face relaxed.

Caratacus pulled Vespasian to his feet. ‘Lift him; we must get him out of here.’

Vespasian did as he was told, unthinkingly knowing that was the right thing to do.

‘Father?’ Titus mumbled.

‘You’ll be all right; I knocked the cup away before you drank too much and you’ve had the whole antidote.’

‘Who said you can leave?’ Nero shouted, his laughter dying.

‘With your permission I’m taking them into my care, Princeps,’ Caratacus said, helping to lift Titus. ‘As you showed mercy to me so I beg you show mercy to this son of Rome. Rome’s lost one son already today; do not make her lose a second.’