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Synopsis
AD 54. Claudius is dead. Rome is in turmoil. And two brave heroes of the Roman army face the challenge of their lives.
Simon Scarrow's Day of the Caesars is not to be missed by readers of Conn Iggulden and Bernard Cornwell. 'A new book in Simon Scarrow's series about the Roman army is always a joy' The Times
The Emperor Claudius is dead. Nero rules. His half-brother Britannicus has also laid claim to the throne. A bloody power struggle is underway.
All Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro want is a simple army life, fighting with their brave and loyal men. But Cato has caught the eye of rival factions determined to get him on their side. To survive, Cato must play a cunning game, and enlist the help of the one man in the Empire he can trust: Macro.
As the rebel force grows, legionaries and Praetorian Guards are moved like chess pieces by powerful and shadowy figures. A political game has created the ultimate military challenge. Can civil war be averted? The future of the empire is in Cato's hands...
IF YOU DON'T KNOW SIMON SCARROW, YOU DON'T KNOW ROME!
(P)2017 Headline Publishing Group Ltd.
Release date: November 16, 2017
Publisher: Headline
Print pages: 448
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Day of the Caesars
Simon Scarrow
Cast List
Quintus Licinius Cato: Prefect of the Second Cohort of the Praetorian Guard, a promising young officer
Lucius Cornelius Macro: Centurion of the Second Cohort of the Praetorian Guard, a hard-bitten veteran
Nero: Newly installed Emperor of Rome; adopted son of the late Emperor Claudius, who hopes to usher in a new ‘Golden Age’ provided he can find the gold to ensure it happens
Britannicus: Son of the late Emperor Claudius; half-brother of Nero and living to regret it
Agrippina: Widow of Emperor Claudius, and struggling to retain her hold over her son
Pallas: First Freedman to Emperor Nero, cunning, ruthless and grasping
Vitellius: Commander of the recent Expeditionary Force sent to Hispania; an aristocrat with an ambitious streak a mile wide
Granicus: Senator, who has lived long enough to see everything and rue the habits of the age accordingly
Vespasian: Former Legate of the Second Legion and senator – an honest and able soldier
Domitia: Wife of Vespasian, a woman with rather more ambition than is healthy for her husband
Amrillus: Senator of Rome
Junia, Cornelia: Wives of Senators
Attalus: Agent of Domitia
Fennus, Tallinus: Spies of Pallas
Lemillus: Admiral of the Fleet at Misenum, an old salt who stays the course
Spiromandes: A Navarch (Squadron Commander) of the Misenum fleet
Pastinus: Legate of the Sixth Legion, with a commendable dislike of lawyers
Praetorian Guard
Burrus: Prefect commanding the Guard, promoted above his abilities
Mantalus: Tribune
Tertillius: Commander of the Third Cohort
Caecilius: Junior Tribune
Second Praetorian cohort
Cristus: Tribune; former lover of Cato’s late wife Julia, something of a playboy
Placinus, Porcino, Petillius: Centurions
Metellus, Ignatius, Nicolis, Gannicus, Nerva: Optios
Rutilius: Imperial Standard Bearer
Others
Julia: Cato’s deceased wife, of possibly doubtful morality
Lucius: Son of Julia and Cato, something of a handful…
Senator Sempronius: Father of Julia, an honest politician, thus something of a rarity
Petronella: Nurse to Lucius, and a woman to be reckoned with
Tribonius: Innkeeper in Subura
Decimus: Doorkeeper at Vespasian’s house
Cephodus: A low-life advocate of the lawyer’s courtyard in the Boarium
Chapter One
Rome, late AD 54
It started, as these things always do, over a few drinks. Not that fights were an unusual occurrence in the Subura neighbourhood, let alone in the inn named Romulus and the Wolf, well known for its cheap wine, cheery tarts and those who sold inside information about the chariot-racing teams. It was one of the largest drinking dens in the slum, occupying the entire ground floor of an apartment block on the corner of a small square. A long counter ran along the rear wall where the owner, Tribonius, ran a small team of heavily made-up women who served the customers drink, a limited range of meals, and other services to those with more carnal appetites. Two burly men stood at each of the entrances opening on to the street to check customers for weapons before they were let inside. Some innkeepers declined to take such precautions for fear of driving custom away, but Tribonius had been in business for over twenty years and had an established clientele who put up with the restriction out of fondness for the pleasures to be found within.
On this night, barely a month after the death of Emperor Claudius, it was raining and the streets of Rome glistened in the steady hiss and patter of raindrops. Claudius’s demise had been met with a healthy degree of caution and anxiety from the common people of the capital, and that had not been good for business at the Romulus and the Wolf, as many of them kept off the streets as much as possible, fearing trouble between the rival factions supporting the emperor’s sons, Nero and Britannicus. The old boy may have been a bit muddle-headed and clumsy but he had kept the people fed and entertained, and more importantly his reign had been stable and not marred by the casual cruelty and ruthlessness of the two emperors before him. But where there are two heirs to the most powerful empire in the known world, there is bound to be tension, to say the least.
Nero at sixteen was the older of the two boys by three years. He was not Claudius’s natural son, but the child of the empress, Agrippina, who herself was the daughter of Claudius’s brother. Marriage between uncle and niece had required a change to the law, but the senators had found it within themselves to forgive a small matter like incest in order to curry favour with their emperor. And so Nero became the legal son of Claudius. However, Claudius’s natural son, Britannicus, resented the imposition of an adopted brother, whose preferential status was soon boosted by his mother’s hold over the mind and carnal desires of the emperor. And so, in the final years of his reign, Claudius had unwittingly created a rivalry that threatened the peace of Rome. Even though the empress had rushed to announce that her son had succeeded to the throne, it was well known that Britannicus and his allies did not accept the situation, and the common people were accordingly apprehensive as they watched and waited for the rivalry to be resolved.
A party of Praetorian guardsmen in heavy cloaks entered the square and hurried across to the inn, talking and laughing loudly. As well they might, since the Praetorians were the darlings of the emperors, who rewarded them handsomely for their loyalty. And the new emperor was no exception. Every guardsman in Rome had been given a small fortune when Nero’s accession had been announced, and their purses bulged with silver. Tribonius looked up with a broad smile as the soldiers stepped in off the street, lowering their hoods and removing their drenched capes, which they hung on the pegs along a side wall before approaching the counter to order their first drinks. Freshly minted coins were slapped down on the stained and heavily scored wooden surface, and cups and jars of wine were brought out from the back room and handed over to the eager soldiers.
They were not the first guardsmen to provide the inn with custom this night. A smaller group had arrived shortly before and had taken over a corner, seating themselves on benches either side of a table. Their mood was markedly less jovial, even though they too had been recipients of the emperor’s largesse, and now their leader turned to look towards the Praetorians at the counter and frowned.
‘Bloody fools,’ he grumbled. ‘What do they think they’re celebrating?’
‘An extra year’s pay, for one thing,’ the man sitting next to him replied with a thin smile. He raised his cup. ‘A toast to our new emperor.’
The gesture was met with sullen silence from the rest of the soldiers seated round the table, and the man continued in a tone laced with irony. ‘What’s this, lads? No one going to join me in toasting our beloved Nero? No? They’re all as miserable as you, Priscus.’
The leader turned his attention away from the men at the counter. ‘Aye, Piso, well there’s every reason to be miserable with that chinless wonder on the throne. You’ve been on duty at the palace as much as me, so you have seen Nero close up. You know what he’s like. Stuffing himself with dainties while poncing around with his poets and actors. And he’s got a nasty streak too. You remember that time we had to escort him on one of his anonymous trips into the city? When he got into that argument with the old bloke and made us pin the man to the wall while he stabbed him to death?’
Piso shook his head at the memory. ‘Not our finest hour, I’ll agree.’
‘No,’ Priscus said through gritted teeth. ‘Not by a long way. And he’ll be worse now he’s emperor. You’ll see.’
‘At least he paid us off nicely.’
‘Some of us,’ Priscus replied. ‘There’s still the lads who’ve been campaigning in Hispania. They’ll not be happy about missing out on their share of the silver when they get back to Rome.’
‘You’re not wrong . . . Anyway, what makes you think Nero’s little brother would be much better if he was emperor instead?’
Priscus thought about this for a moment and shrugged. ‘Not much, perhaps. But Britannicus is no fool. And ever since he was an infant he’s been raised to prepare to rule the Empire. Besides, he’s the flesh and blood of Claudius. It’s his birthright to be emperor. Instead, the poor lad’s been pushed aside by that scheming bitch Agrippina and that oily bastard Pallas.’
At the mention of the new emperor’s closest adviser, Piso looked around anxiously. The inn was the kind of place that imperial spies and informers frequented to listen in on conversations and identify troublemakers to their paymasters at the palace. Pallas was known to show as little tolerance towards those who criticised him as to those who dared to criticise the emperor. However, no one seemed to be eavesdropping and Piso took a quick sip of wine before giving his friend a warning look. ‘Better watch your tongue, Priscus, or you’ll get yourself, and the rest of us, into trouble. I would have preferred it if Britannicus was our new emperor just as much as you, but he ain’t and there’s nothing we can do about it.’
Priscus smiled quickly. ‘Not you maybe. But there are people who will do something.’
‘What do you mean?’
Before Priscus could respond, they were interrupted by a loud laugh just behind them.
‘Why, lads, it’s our friend Priscus and his dour little shower of mates!’
Priscus recognised the voice at once but did not turn round. He set his cup down instead and spoke loudly. ‘Hey, Biblius, why don’t you just fuck off and let me drink in peace?’
‘Fuck off?’ The new arrival stepped round to the head of the table and looked down at Priscus and his companions. ‘Now that’s no way to greet an old comrade bearing gifts.’
He pulled the stopper from the wine jar under his arm and topped up Priscus’s cup before the latter could react, then raised his own cup to the men at the table.
‘Now then, lads. Who’ll join me in a toast to our mutual benefactor? To Emperor Nero, may the gods bless him!’ He drained the cup in one go before throwing it to the floor with a crash and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘That’s good stuff.’
None of the men had responded to his toast, and he looked at them and cocked an eyebrow. ‘What’s this? Not going to drink to our emperor? Smacks of disloyalty to me.’ He glanced round at his friends clustered nearby. ‘What do you think, boys? Seems like this lot don’t think much of Nero. Some might say that’s more than disloyal. Treasonous maybe. Perhaps they were hoping for that little prick Britannicus to assume the purple? But as it is, our boy won. Yours lost. The choice has been made and your lot just have to stop moaning and put up with it.’
Priscus stood slowly and raised his cup as he confronted Biblius. ‘My apologies, brother. Where are my manners?’
He gently twisted his wrist and a thin stream of dark red wine trickled over Biblius’s hand. He continued the movement up Biblius’s arm, sloshing more wine over the man’s shoulder and then up on to his head, where he gave the cup a little shake to get the last drops out. Then he withdrew his hand and stared at Biblius in silence as the latter scowled.
‘You’re going to regret that, Priscus.’
‘Really?’
Priscus smashed the cup into Biblius’s face, shattering both it and the other soldier’s nose. Then, as his victim staggered back, blood coursing from his face, he shouted at his friends. ‘What are you waiting for? Get stuck in!’
With a roar, his companions leapt up, knocking the benches back and upending the table before they charged the other Praetorians, fists raised like hammers. Priscus kept his attention on Biblius. He had always considered the man a stupid loudmouth, and now it was time to teach him a lesson. Rushing forward, he launched an uppercut that crashed into the man’s chin, knocking his head up, then followed through with a blow to the guts and then a cross that struck Biblius on the jaw, sending him reeling before he regained his balance.
He glared wild-eyed at Priscus. ‘You are dead!’ he roared. ‘Fucking dead!’
But before he could make good on his threat, Priscus charged forward and threw another punch. Biblius jerked his head back to avoid the blow, but was too slow and took the full weight of it on his throat. Priscus felt bone and cartilage crunch and Biblius let out a grunt and snatched his hands to his neck as he struggled to breathe. Fists raised, and standing in a half-crouch, Priscus waited for the man to respond. But Biblius took another few paces back, clawing at his throat as his jaw worked frantically, his eyes almost popping from their sockets. Then he stumbled against a stool and fell back, landing heavily and cracking his skull on the flagstone floor. He lay staring at the ceiling, then blinked a few times, shuddered, and did not move again.
Priscus approached warily, but the main fight was taking place over by the counter and he was not threatened. He prodded Biblius with the toe of his boot.
‘Get up!’
There was no response, so this time he kicked the man. ‘On your feet, you bastard, and I’ll show you what happens to those who support Nero.’
Biblius took the kick without responding, and the first cold tingle of fear washed up the back of Priscus’s neck. He relaxed his fists and cautiously crouched beside the other man.
‘Biblius?’
‘He’s dead!’
Priscus looked up to see one of the bar girls staring down at him. She clutched a hand to her mouth in shock.
‘You’ve gone and killed ’im!’
‘No. I—’
‘He’s DEAD!’ she cried out.
Some of the Praetorians glanced over, and a few broke away from the fight to see what was happening. Priscus shook his head as he looked down at the man he had felled. He knew the girl was right.
‘But it was an accident . . .’
Biblius was dead. Sure as the rising and setting of the sun. And there was only one punishment for those who killed their comrades in arms. He stood up and backed towards the entrance.
‘You killed him.’ One of Biblius’s men stabbed his finger at Priscus.
Priscus turned and ran. Out on to the street without his cloak, into the cold rain. Without thinking, he turned away from the direction of the Praetorian camp and fled, racing down the street as the shouts from the inn followed him.
He had only gone a short way before he heard someone behind him cry, ‘There he goes!’ He sprinted on, as fast as he could, until he saw the opening to a dark alley ahead and dived into it. He took the first right, then a left, and ran hard. The sounds of pursuit continued for a while before falling away into the distance. Still he ran, putting more distance between himself and his pursuers, until he finally stopped in a street just off the Forum and pressed himself into the shadows of an archway, gasping for breath.
He had killed a man. It had been an accident, a simple accident. But that would not excuse him from the rigours of military discipline. He was as good as dead if he allowed himself to be captured. Particularly if his anti-Nero sentiments were taken into account. The division of loyalties within the Praetorian Guard was making the senior officers nervous enough already. They would be sure to make an example of him, as much to show what happened to those who opposed Nero as to punish him for murdering a brother in arms.
There was only one place he could go now. One place where there were others who thought like him. Who would conceal him until the hue and cry had died down. Others who were waiting for the right moment to overthrow the usurper Nero and kill all those in his faction. They would not be pleased by Priscus’s actions, but they needed his particular skills and could not afford to refuse him shelter.
The rain had stopped by the time he had caught his breath and decided on his course of action. Priscus emerged from the archway, straightening his back, and strode away, trying to look like a man who had nothing to trouble his conscience. He knew exactly where he was going and where the future would take him.
Chapter Two
The feast to mark the end of the Sullan games had just got under way when the uninvited guests arrived at the house of Senator Sempronius. It was a modest home by the standards of most aristocrats of his rank, but then Sempronius had never traded on his family name to gain lucrative tax-collecting concessions or preferment. He had even permitted his only daughter to marry beneath her when she wed Quintus Licinius Cato, a young army officer with considerable promise. Though Julia had since died, she had provided the senator with a grandson to continue the family name.
The death of Emperor Claudius, scarcely a month ago, had not come as a surprise to those in Rome, Sempronius reflected. The emperor had been old and increasingly decrepit, and rarely seen in public. His death had been described as peaceful, and the word was that he had slipped away surrounded by members of the imperial family and his closest advisers. His successor had been announced in almost the same breath, causing the more cynical inhabitants of the capital to observe that anointing a new emperor took time to arrange, and that it was likely that Claudius’s corpse had been left to corrupt in some side room while his successor’s supporters made sure of his position.
And so Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus had been presented to the people of Rome as their new ruler. Yet there were rumours that Claudius had been murdered by his young wife. Poisoned. Agrippina may have claimed the purple for her son, but it was no secret that many influential people were resolutely opposed to Nero. The kind of people who might very easily be counted amongst the guests of Senator Sempronius on this chilly December evening.
The rain clouds had gone and the night sky was clear. Tables and couches had been arranged around the sides of the large courtyard at the rear of the house, and the senator’s guests were warmed by braziers as they helped themselves to the pastries neatly arranged on the platters placed before them. The host was seated in the place of honour on a raised dais, with the most prestigious guests on either side of him. To his right lay Britannicus – a surly, intelligent youth, picking the crust off a small venison pie as he stared down at it in a desultory manner. Behind his couch stood his illiterate body slave, a hulking former gladiator whose tongue had been cut out to ensure he would never speak of anything he overheard.
Sempronius shifted to his left, and was discussing the recent news from Hispania with a stocky crop-haired senator and his wife when his attention was drawn to his steward, waving frantically from the corridor leading to the front door. Sempronius dabbed his lips with the tips of his fingers. ‘Please excuse me, Vespasian. I seem to be needed.’
His guest frowned. ‘What?’
Sempronius gestured towards his steward, and Vespasian’s wife nodded sympathetically. ‘You can never relax at your own social event. How tiresome.’
‘Quite. Please pay it no mind, Domitia, and enjoy these little snacks. I think you’ll find that my cook has no equal in the art of baking.’
With a smile Sempronius shifted round and eased himself off the couch and on to his feet. Brushing the crumbs from his tunic, he picked his way along the side of the yard to where the steward was waiting, his expression anxious.
‘What’s the matter?’ Sempronius demanded. ‘Is it that bloody lyre player? You did agree the price I said with him, didn’t you?’
‘It’s not that, master.’ Croton shook his head. ‘There’s a man from the palace at the door. Says Pallas sent him.’
‘Pallas?’ Sempronius frowned. What could the imperial freedman want with him at this hour? No doubt the man was flexing a bit of muscle, now that the boy he had chosen to back was on the throne. Pallas had made a fortune under the previous emperor, and was set to enrich himself even further under Nero. It was one of the more egregious features of the age that humble – not to mention devious – freedmen exercised more power and influence than the Senate. The members of that august body had ruled Rome from the time when the last of the kings had been removed up until the advent of the Caesars. Now the senators lived in the ever-lengthening shadow of the emperors, though many still harboured dreams of a return to the glorious days of the Republic, when men served the ideal of Rome rather than a line of quasi-divine despots afflicted by mercurial fits of cruelty, madness and stupidity.
‘Right then. Let’s see what he wants.’
The senator followed Croton back through the house to the entrance hall. A thin figure in the blue tunic of the imperial household stood waiting beside the studded door. He bowed briefly before he spoke.
‘Senator Sempronius, I bring greetings in the name of Marcus Antonius Pallas, first freedman to the emperor.’
‘First freedman?’ That was a title Sempronius had not heard before. Clearly Pallas was moving to cement his place at Nero’s side.
‘Yes, sir. My master bids me inform you that the emperor and his retinue wish to honour you with a visit to your home.’
Sempronius felt his pulse quicken in alarm. ‘Did he say why?’
‘I was told to tell you it was a social call, sir.’ The slave’s faint smile betrayed that the senator’s anxiety at the news had been anticipated. ‘My master says there is no cause for concern.’
‘I am not bloody concerned!’ Sempronius snapped. ‘Who the hell does that jumped-up freedman think he is?’
The slave opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it and bowed his head in a cursory gesture of deference. Sempronius glared at the man as he forced himself to calm down. ‘Very well, when is the emperor coming? I’ll need to send my cook to the Forum first thing in the morning. Is there anything in particular he is fond of?’
‘Sir, he is coming here tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
The senator exchanged a quick glance with Croton. The feast had taken many days to prepare, and now they’d have to call a halt to proceedings and send the guests away as soon as possible.
‘At any moment, sir. I was sent ahead to announce his arrival when the imperial retinue began to climb the hill.’
The foot of the Viminal was no more than a quarter of a mile away, and even as Sempronius began to calculate the time it would take the imperial party to reach his front door, he heard the crunch of nailed boots in the street outside and a voice bellowing for the way to be cleared. There was no time to prepare to receive his unexpected visitors. He swallowed nervously and nodded to Croton.
‘Open the door.’
His steward slid back the iron bolt and drew the heavy door inwards with a faint rasp from the solid hinges. Cold air wafted into the entrance, carrying with it the stink of ordure and stale sweat and rotting vegetation from the street. Low flames flickering in the small braziers hanging either side of the door cast a faint loom over the paved thoroughfare running past the senator’s home. To the left, the street sloped in the direction of the Forum, and less than thirty paces away Sempronius saw a torch being held aloft by a Praetorian guardsman. The plumed helmet of an officer followed behind, and then the dull gleam from the armour of a small column of soldiers. Beyond, two litters swayed gently as their bearers struggled to keep up with the guardsmen. Between the house and the imperial retinue, lit by the wash of light spilling out from a corner tavern, stood several youths, thumbs tucked defiantly into their wide leather belts. Some still held clay cups in their hands.
‘You lot! Out of the way, I said!’ the Praetorian officer shouted. ‘Or you’ll feel the flat of my sword on your arses. Move!’
The largest of the youths, his pockmarked face ringed by oiled curls of dark hair, stepped forward and cocked his head to one side.
‘What’s this, lads? Visitors to our street? I don’t recall inviting them.’
His gang, spirits emboldened by cheap wine, laughed and jeered at the oncoming Praetorians.
‘On whose say-so do you come into our neighbourhood, friend?’
‘In the name of the emperor! Now move aside, unless you want to be thrown to the beasts.’
One of the youths raised his fingers to his mouth and blew a flat, mocking catcall. Their leader drained his cup and suddenly hurled it at the soldiers. It struck the crest of the officer’s helmet and exploded into fragments and a spray of dregs.
‘Little bastards!’ the officer yelled. ‘I’ll have you!’
He snatched out his sword, thrust aside the man carrying the torch and charged towards the youths. Their leader turned lightly on his heel.
‘Time to run, boys!’
With gleeful shouts they rushed up the street, past Sempronius’s house, and turned into a narrow alley a little further on, their laughter fading into the distance. The officer sheathed his blade with a muttered curse and continued leading his party up to the entrance, where he shouted an order. The guardsmen halted, and there was a beat before their officer called out their orders and pairs of men trotted on to take up positions guarding the streets and alleys immediately around the senator’s home. Once they were in place, the officer waved the litters forward and turned to salute Sempronius.
‘Sextus Afranius Burrus, Prefect of the Guard.’
Sempronius had not seen the man before, but knew the name. Burrus was one of the officers promoted in the last months of Claudius’s reign, on the advice of Pallas and the empress, and was a supporter of Nero’s accession.
There was no time to return the greeting, as the first of the litters had stopped in front of the entrance. The lead bearer quietly called out an instruction and the litter was lowered gently to the ground. There was a brief pause, during which Sempronius could hear a soft exchange of words, before a hand slipped out through the folds of the cloth draped over the litter and drew them aside. Gleaming red leather boots swung out, and then the emperor heaved himself on to his feet, stretching his back. He affected to ignore Sempronius as he offered his hand to his mother, and a moment later Agrippina stood at his side, her carefully arranged hair slightly awry as she pulled up her stola to cover her shoulder. Sempronius glimpsed a small red patch, like a bite mark, on her neck, and instantly shifted his gaze away.
Slipping his arm round his mother’s waist, Nero turned to the senator and spoke in a tone that suggested a chance meeting on the street.
‘Ah! My dear Senator Sempronius! A pleasure to see you.’
Sempronius bowed. ‘The pleasure is mine, imperial highness.’
‘I’m sure. But let us not dwell on formalities. We are all friends now.’
‘You honour me.’
Nero wafted a hand dismissively before he continued. ‘I am told that you are entertaining friends tonight. A feast apparently.’
Sempronius nodded. ‘A modest gathering.’
‘By palace standards, I am sure. I understand that you have my stepbrother amongst your guests.’
‘Yes, imperial highness.’
Nero stepped closer to Sempronius so that their faces were no more than a foot apart. He stared at the senator in silence, and then suddenly tilted his head and tapped him on the chest. ‘Like I said, let’s keep this informal. You may address me as Nero tonight.’
The passenger in the other litter had climbed out and was approaching. As he moved into the loom of the flames from the braziers, Sempronius identified Pallas. The imperial freedman was wearing a purple silk tunic beneath a soft wool cape. Gold and jewels glittered on his fingers.
Nero turned to him. ‘Britannicus is here, just like you said.’
Pallas smiled thinly. ‘Of course. The question is, why is he here?’
The enquiry was directed at Sempronius, but the freedman continued smiling at the emperor, as if the senator was some flunkey waiting on the imperial party. Sempronius swallowed anxiously. Pallas turned his dark eyes towards him.
‘Well, Senator?’
‘I worked closely with Emperor Claudius, and got to know Britannicus from an early age. It was my duty to look out for him then, as it is now. I feel I owe that to his father, who was always kind to me and acted as my patron.’
‘Very noble of you.’ Nero smiled. ‘I am sure my late father would be grateful for the kindness you have shown his flesh and blood. Now, if you will be so good as to lead us through to the feast. We’re famished. Come!’
Without waiting to be invited, the emperor and his mother swept over the threshold and headed across the modest hall towards the corridor that led through the house to the courtyard. Pallas left orders for Burrus to make sure that no one entered or left the house without first seeking the permission of the freedman, and then strode after them. Sempronius hurried to catch up and fell into stride beside him.
‘I’d have appreciated some notice of this,’ he said softly but sharply.
‘And I would have appreciated some notice of Britannicus’s whereabouts. He left the palace without notifying anyone. He wasn’t missed until the imperial family sat down to dinner. When he didn’t appear, it didn’t take long for one of his slaves to cough up the truth. With things as they are, I am sure you can understand that there might be a degree of suspicion regarding Britannicus’s unexplained a
Quintus Licinius Cato: Prefect of the Second Cohort of the Praetorian Guard, a promising young officer
Lucius Cornelius Macro: Centurion of the Second Cohort of the Praetorian Guard, a hard-bitten veteran
Nero: Newly installed Emperor of Rome; adopted son of the late Emperor Claudius, who hopes to usher in a new ‘Golden Age’ provided he can find the gold to ensure it happens
Britannicus: Son of the late Emperor Claudius; half-brother of Nero and living to regret it
Agrippina: Widow of Emperor Claudius, and struggling to retain her hold over her son
Pallas: First Freedman to Emperor Nero, cunning, ruthless and grasping
Vitellius: Commander of the recent Expeditionary Force sent to Hispania; an aristocrat with an ambitious streak a mile wide
Granicus: Senator, who has lived long enough to see everything and rue the habits of the age accordingly
Vespasian: Former Legate of the Second Legion and senator – an honest and able soldier
Domitia: Wife of Vespasian, a woman with rather more ambition than is healthy for her husband
Amrillus: Senator of Rome
Junia, Cornelia: Wives of Senators
Attalus: Agent of Domitia
Fennus, Tallinus: Spies of Pallas
Lemillus: Admiral of the Fleet at Misenum, an old salt who stays the course
Spiromandes: A Navarch (Squadron Commander) of the Misenum fleet
Pastinus: Legate of the Sixth Legion, with a commendable dislike of lawyers
Praetorian Guard
Burrus: Prefect commanding the Guard, promoted above his abilities
Mantalus: Tribune
Tertillius: Commander of the Third Cohort
Caecilius: Junior Tribune
Second Praetorian cohort
Cristus: Tribune; former lover of Cato’s late wife Julia, something of a playboy
Placinus, Porcino, Petillius: Centurions
Metellus, Ignatius, Nicolis, Gannicus, Nerva: Optios
Rutilius: Imperial Standard Bearer
Others
Julia: Cato’s deceased wife, of possibly doubtful morality
Lucius: Son of Julia and Cato, something of a handful…
Senator Sempronius: Father of Julia, an honest politician, thus something of a rarity
Petronella: Nurse to Lucius, and a woman to be reckoned with
Tribonius: Innkeeper in Subura
Decimus: Doorkeeper at Vespasian’s house
Cephodus: A low-life advocate of the lawyer’s courtyard in the Boarium
Chapter One
Rome, late AD 54
It started, as these things always do, over a few drinks. Not that fights were an unusual occurrence in the Subura neighbourhood, let alone in the inn named Romulus and the Wolf, well known for its cheap wine, cheery tarts and those who sold inside information about the chariot-racing teams. It was one of the largest drinking dens in the slum, occupying the entire ground floor of an apartment block on the corner of a small square. A long counter ran along the rear wall where the owner, Tribonius, ran a small team of heavily made-up women who served the customers drink, a limited range of meals, and other services to those with more carnal appetites. Two burly men stood at each of the entrances opening on to the street to check customers for weapons before they were let inside. Some innkeepers declined to take such precautions for fear of driving custom away, but Tribonius had been in business for over twenty years and had an established clientele who put up with the restriction out of fondness for the pleasures to be found within.
On this night, barely a month after the death of Emperor Claudius, it was raining and the streets of Rome glistened in the steady hiss and patter of raindrops. Claudius’s demise had been met with a healthy degree of caution and anxiety from the common people of the capital, and that had not been good for business at the Romulus and the Wolf, as many of them kept off the streets as much as possible, fearing trouble between the rival factions supporting the emperor’s sons, Nero and Britannicus. The old boy may have been a bit muddle-headed and clumsy but he had kept the people fed and entertained, and more importantly his reign had been stable and not marred by the casual cruelty and ruthlessness of the two emperors before him. But where there are two heirs to the most powerful empire in the known world, there is bound to be tension, to say the least.
Nero at sixteen was the older of the two boys by three years. He was not Claudius’s natural son, but the child of the empress, Agrippina, who herself was the daughter of Claudius’s brother. Marriage between uncle and niece had required a change to the law, but the senators had found it within themselves to forgive a small matter like incest in order to curry favour with their emperor. And so Nero became the legal son of Claudius. However, Claudius’s natural son, Britannicus, resented the imposition of an adopted brother, whose preferential status was soon boosted by his mother’s hold over the mind and carnal desires of the emperor. And so, in the final years of his reign, Claudius had unwittingly created a rivalry that threatened the peace of Rome. Even though the empress had rushed to announce that her son had succeeded to the throne, it was well known that Britannicus and his allies did not accept the situation, and the common people were accordingly apprehensive as they watched and waited for the rivalry to be resolved.
A party of Praetorian guardsmen in heavy cloaks entered the square and hurried across to the inn, talking and laughing loudly. As well they might, since the Praetorians were the darlings of the emperors, who rewarded them handsomely for their loyalty. And the new emperor was no exception. Every guardsman in Rome had been given a small fortune when Nero’s accession had been announced, and their purses bulged with silver. Tribonius looked up with a broad smile as the soldiers stepped in off the street, lowering their hoods and removing their drenched capes, which they hung on the pegs along a side wall before approaching the counter to order their first drinks. Freshly minted coins were slapped down on the stained and heavily scored wooden surface, and cups and jars of wine were brought out from the back room and handed over to the eager soldiers.
They were not the first guardsmen to provide the inn with custom this night. A smaller group had arrived shortly before and had taken over a corner, seating themselves on benches either side of a table. Their mood was markedly less jovial, even though they too had been recipients of the emperor’s largesse, and now their leader turned to look towards the Praetorians at the counter and frowned.
‘Bloody fools,’ he grumbled. ‘What do they think they’re celebrating?’
‘An extra year’s pay, for one thing,’ the man sitting next to him replied with a thin smile. He raised his cup. ‘A toast to our new emperor.’
The gesture was met with sullen silence from the rest of the soldiers seated round the table, and the man continued in a tone laced with irony. ‘What’s this, lads? No one going to join me in toasting our beloved Nero? No? They’re all as miserable as you, Priscus.’
The leader turned his attention away from the men at the counter. ‘Aye, Piso, well there’s every reason to be miserable with that chinless wonder on the throne. You’ve been on duty at the palace as much as me, so you have seen Nero close up. You know what he’s like. Stuffing himself with dainties while poncing around with his poets and actors. And he’s got a nasty streak too. You remember that time we had to escort him on one of his anonymous trips into the city? When he got into that argument with the old bloke and made us pin the man to the wall while he stabbed him to death?’
Piso shook his head at the memory. ‘Not our finest hour, I’ll agree.’
‘No,’ Priscus said through gritted teeth. ‘Not by a long way. And he’ll be worse now he’s emperor. You’ll see.’
‘At least he paid us off nicely.’
‘Some of us,’ Priscus replied. ‘There’s still the lads who’ve been campaigning in Hispania. They’ll not be happy about missing out on their share of the silver when they get back to Rome.’
‘You’re not wrong . . . Anyway, what makes you think Nero’s little brother would be much better if he was emperor instead?’
Priscus thought about this for a moment and shrugged. ‘Not much, perhaps. But Britannicus is no fool. And ever since he was an infant he’s been raised to prepare to rule the Empire. Besides, he’s the flesh and blood of Claudius. It’s his birthright to be emperor. Instead, the poor lad’s been pushed aside by that scheming bitch Agrippina and that oily bastard Pallas.’
At the mention of the new emperor’s closest adviser, Piso looked around anxiously. The inn was the kind of place that imperial spies and informers frequented to listen in on conversations and identify troublemakers to their paymasters at the palace. Pallas was known to show as little tolerance towards those who criticised him as to those who dared to criticise the emperor. However, no one seemed to be eavesdropping and Piso took a quick sip of wine before giving his friend a warning look. ‘Better watch your tongue, Priscus, or you’ll get yourself, and the rest of us, into trouble. I would have preferred it if Britannicus was our new emperor just as much as you, but he ain’t and there’s nothing we can do about it.’
Priscus smiled quickly. ‘Not you maybe. But there are people who will do something.’
‘What do you mean?’
Before Priscus could respond, they were interrupted by a loud laugh just behind them.
‘Why, lads, it’s our friend Priscus and his dour little shower of mates!’
Priscus recognised the voice at once but did not turn round. He set his cup down instead and spoke loudly. ‘Hey, Biblius, why don’t you just fuck off and let me drink in peace?’
‘Fuck off?’ The new arrival stepped round to the head of the table and looked down at Priscus and his companions. ‘Now that’s no way to greet an old comrade bearing gifts.’
He pulled the stopper from the wine jar under his arm and topped up Priscus’s cup before the latter could react, then raised his own cup to the men at the table.
‘Now then, lads. Who’ll join me in a toast to our mutual benefactor? To Emperor Nero, may the gods bless him!’ He drained the cup in one go before throwing it to the floor with a crash and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘That’s good stuff.’
None of the men had responded to his toast, and he looked at them and cocked an eyebrow. ‘What’s this? Not going to drink to our emperor? Smacks of disloyalty to me.’ He glanced round at his friends clustered nearby. ‘What do you think, boys? Seems like this lot don’t think much of Nero. Some might say that’s more than disloyal. Treasonous maybe. Perhaps they were hoping for that little prick Britannicus to assume the purple? But as it is, our boy won. Yours lost. The choice has been made and your lot just have to stop moaning and put up with it.’
Priscus stood slowly and raised his cup as he confronted Biblius. ‘My apologies, brother. Where are my manners?’
He gently twisted his wrist and a thin stream of dark red wine trickled over Biblius’s hand. He continued the movement up Biblius’s arm, sloshing more wine over the man’s shoulder and then up on to his head, where he gave the cup a little shake to get the last drops out. Then he withdrew his hand and stared at Biblius in silence as the latter scowled.
‘You’re going to regret that, Priscus.’
‘Really?’
Priscus smashed the cup into Biblius’s face, shattering both it and the other soldier’s nose. Then, as his victim staggered back, blood coursing from his face, he shouted at his friends. ‘What are you waiting for? Get stuck in!’
With a roar, his companions leapt up, knocking the benches back and upending the table before they charged the other Praetorians, fists raised like hammers. Priscus kept his attention on Biblius. He had always considered the man a stupid loudmouth, and now it was time to teach him a lesson. Rushing forward, he launched an uppercut that crashed into the man’s chin, knocking his head up, then followed through with a blow to the guts and then a cross that struck Biblius on the jaw, sending him reeling before he regained his balance.
He glared wild-eyed at Priscus. ‘You are dead!’ he roared. ‘Fucking dead!’
But before he could make good on his threat, Priscus charged forward and threw another punch. Biblius jerked his head back to avoid the blow, but was too slow and took the full weight of it on his throat. Priscus felt bone and cartilage crunch and Biblius let out a grunt and snatched his hands to his neck as he struggled to breathe. Fists raised, and standing in a half-crouch, Priscus waited for the man to respond. But Biblius took another few paces back, clawing at his throat as his jaw worked frantically, his eyes almost popping from their sockets. Then he stumbled against a stool and fell back, landing heavily and cracking his skull on the flagstone floor. He lay staring at the ceiling, then blinked a few times, shuddered, and did not move again.
Priscus approached warily, but the main fight was taking place over by the counter and he was not threatened. He prodded Biblius with the toe of his boot.
‘Get up!’
There was no response, so this time he kicked the man. ‘On your feet, you bastard, and I’ll show you what happens to those who support Nero.’
Biblius took the kick without responding, and the first cold tingle of fear washed up the back of Priscus’s neck. He relaxed his fists and cautiously crouched beside the other man.
‘Biblius?’
‘He’s dead!’
Priscus looked up to see one of the bar girls staring down at him. She clutched a hand to her mouth in shock.
‘You’ve gone and killed ’im!’
‘No. I—’
‘He’s DEAD!’ she cried out.
Some of the Praetorians glanced over, and a few broke away from the fight to see what was happening. Priscus shook his head as he looked down at the man he had felled. He knew the girl was right.
‘But it was an accident . . .’
Biblius was dead. Sure as the rising and setting of the sun. And there was only one punishment for those who killed their comrades in arms. He stood up and backed towards the entrance.
‘You killed him.’ One of Biblius’s men stabbed his finger at Priscus.
Priscus turned and ran. Out on to the street without his cloak, into the cold rain. Without thinking, he turned away from the direction of the Praetorian camp and fled, racing down the street as the shouts from the inn followed him.
He had only gone a short way before he heard someone behind him cry, ‘There he goes!’ He sprinted on, as fast as he could, until he saw the opening to a dark alley ahead and dived into it. He took the first right, then a left, and ran hard. The sounds of pursuit continued for a while before falling away into the distance. Still he ran, putting more distance between himself and his pursuers, until he finally stopped in a street just off the Forum and pressed himself into the shadows of an archway, gasping for breath.
He had killed a man. It had been an accident, a simple accident. But that would not excuse him from the rigours of military discipline. He was as good as dead if he allowed himself to be captured. Particularly if his anti-Nero sentiments were taken into account. The division of loyalties within the Praetorian Guard was making the senior officers nervous enough already. They would be sure to make an example of him, as much to show what happened to those who opposed Nero as to punish him for murdering a brother in arms.
There was only one place he could go now. One place where there were others who thought like him. Who would conceal him until the hue and cry had died down. Others who were waiting for the right moment to overthrow the usurper Nero and kill all those in his faction. They would not be pleased by Priscus’s actions, but they needed his particular skills and could not afford to refuse him shelter.
The rain had stopped by the time he had caught his breath and decided on his course of action. Priscus emerged from the archway, straightening his back, and strode away, trying to look like a man who had nothing to trouble his conscience. He knew exactly where he was going and where the future would take him.
Chapter Two
The feast to mark the end of the Sullan games had just got under way when the uninvited guests arrived at the house of Senator Sempronius. It was a modest home by the standards of most aristocrats of his rank, but then Sempronius had never traded on his family name to gain lucrative tax-collecting concessions or preferment. He had even permitted his only daughter to marry beneath her when she wed Quintus Licinius Cato, a young army officer with considerable promise. Though Julia had since died, she had provided the senator with a grandson to continue the family name.
The death of Emperor Claudius, scarcely a month ago, had not come as a surprise to those in Rome, Sempronius reflected. The emperor had been old and increasingly decrepit, and rarely seen in public. His death had been described as peaceful, and the word was that he had slipped away surrounded by members of the imperial family and his closest advisers. His successor had been announced in almost the same breath, causing the more cynical inhabitants of the capital to observe that anointing a new emperor took time to arrange, and that it was likely that Claudius’s corpse had been left to corrupt in some side room while his successor’s supporters made sure of his position.
And so Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus had been presented to the people of Rome as their new ruler. Yet there were rumours that Claudius had been murdered by his young wife. Poisoned. Agrippina may have claimed the purple for her son, but it was no secret that many influential people were resolutely opposed to Nero. The kind of people who might very easily be counted amongst the guests of Senator Sempronius on this chilly December evening.
The rain clouds had gone and the night sky was clear. Tables and couches had been arranged around the sides of the large courtyard at the rear of the house, and the senator’s guests were warmed by braziers as they helped themselves to the pastries neatly arranged on the platters placed before them. The host was seated in the place of honour on a raised dais, with the most prestigious guests on either side of him. To his right lay Britannicus – a surly, intelligent youth, picking the crust off a small venison pie as he stared down at it in a desultory manner. Behind his couch stood his illiterate body slave, a hulking former gladiator whose tongue had been cut out to ensure he would never speak of anything he overheard.
Sempronius shifted to his left, and was discussing the recent news from Hispania with a stocky crop-haired senator and his wife when his attention was drawn to his steward, waving frantically from the corridor leading to the front door. Sempronius dabbed his lips with the tips of his fingers. ‘Please excuse me, Vespasian. I seem to be needed.’
His guest frowned. ‘What?’
Sempronius gestured towards his steward, and Vespasian’s wife nodded sympathetically. ‘You can never relax at your own social event. How tiresome.’
‘Quite. Please pay it no mind, Domitia, and enjoy these little snacks. I think you’ll find that my cook has no equal in the art of baking.’
With a smile Sempronius shifted round and eased himself off the couch and on to his feet. Brushing the crumbs from his tunic, he picked his way along the side of the yard to where the steward was waiting, his expression anxious.
‘What’s the matter?’ Sempronius demanded. ‘Is it that bloody lyre player? You did agree the price I said with him, didn’t you?’
‘It’s not that, master.’ Croton shook his head. ‘There’s a man from the palace at the door. Says Pallas sent him.’
‘Pallas?’ Sempronius frowned. What could the imperial freedman want with him at this hour? No doubt the man was flexing a bit of muscle, now that the boy he had chosen to back was on the throne. Pallas had made a fortune under the previous emperor, and was set to enrich himself even further under Nero. It was one of the more egregious features of the age that humble – not to mention devious – freedmen exercised more power and influence than the Senate. The members of that august body had ruled Rome from the time when the last of the kings had been removed up until the advent of the Caesars. Now the senators lived in the ever-lengthening shadow of the emperors, though many still harboured dreams of a return to the glorious days of the Republic, when men served the ideal of Rome rather than a line of quasi-divine despots afflicted by mercurial fits of cruelty, madness and stupidity.
‘Right then. Let’s see what he wants.’
The senator followed Croton back through the house to the entrance hall. A thin figure in the blue tunic of the imperial household stood waiting beside the studded door. He bowed briefly before he spoke.
‘Senator Sempronius, I bring greetings in the name of Marcus Antonius Pallas, first freedman to the emperor.’
‘First freedman?’ That was a title Sempronius had not heard before. Clearly Pallas was moving to cement his place at Nero’s side.
‘Yes, sir. My master bids me inform you that the emperor and his retinue wish to honour you with a visit to your home.’
Sempronius felt his pulse quicken in alarm. ‘Did he say why?’
‘I was told to tell you it was a social call, sir.’ The slave’s faint smile betrayed that the senator’s anxiety at the news had been anticipated. ‘My master says there is no cause for concern.’
‘I am not bloody concerned!’ Sempronius snapped. ‘Who the hell does that jumped-up freedman think he is?’
The slave opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it and bowed his head in a cursory gesture of deference. Sempronius glared at the man as he forced himself to calm down. ‘Very well, when is the emperor coming? I’ll need to send my cook to the Forum first thing in the morning. Is there anything in particular he is fond of?’
‘Sir, he is coming here tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
The senator exchanged a quick glance with Croton. The feast had taken many days to prepare, and now they’d have to call a halt to proceedings and send the guests away as soon as possible.
‘At any moment, sir. I was sent ahead to announce his arrival when the imperial retinue began to climb the hill.’
The foot of the Viminal was no more than a quarter of a mile away, and even as Sempronius began to calculate the time it would take the imperial party to reach his front door, he heard the crunch of nailed boots in the street outside and a voice bellowing for the way to be cleared. There was no time to prepare to receive his unexpected visitors. He swallowed nervously and nodded to Croton.
‘Open the door.’
His steward slid back the iron bolt and drew the heavy door inwards with a faint rasp from the solid hinges. Cold air wafted into the entrance, carrying with it the stink of ordure and stale sweat and rotting vegetation from the street. Low flames flickering in the small braziers hanging either side of the door cast a faint loom over the paved thoroughfare running past the senator’s home. To the left, the street sloped in the direction of the Forum, and less than thirty paces away Sempronius saw a torch being held aloft by a Praetorian guardsman. The plumed helmet of an officer followed behind, and then the dull gleam from the armour of a small column of soldiers. Beyond, two litters swayed gently as their bearers struggled to keep up with the guardsmen. Between the house and the imperial retinue, lit by the wash of light spilling out from a corner tavern, stood several youths, thumbs tucked defiantly into their wide leather belts. Some still held clay cups in their hands.
‘You lot! Out of the way, I said!’ the Praetorian officer shouted. ‘Or you’ll feel the flat of my sword on your arses. Move!’
The largest of the youths, his pockmarked face ringed by oiled curls of dark hair, stepped forward and cocked his head to one side.
‘What’s this, lads? Visitors to our street? I don’t recall inviting them.’
His gang, spirits emboldened by cheap wine, laughed and jeered at the oncoming Praetorians.
‘On whose say-so do you come into our neighbourhood, friend?’
‘In the name of the emperor! Now move aside, unless you want to be thrown to the beasts.’
One of the youths raised his fingers to his mouth and blew a flat, mocking catcall. Their leader drained his cup and suddenly hurled it at the soldiers. It struck the crest of the officer’s helmet and exploded into fragments and a spray of dregs.
‘Little bastards!’ the officer yelled. ‘I’ll have you!’
He snatched out his sword, thrust aside the man carrying the torch and charged towards the youths. Their leader turned lightly on his heel.
‘Time to run, boys!’
With gleeful shouts they rushed up the street, past Sempronius’s house, and turned into a narrow alley a little further on, their laughter fading into the distance. The officer sheathed his blade with a muttered curse and continued leading his party up to the entrance, where he shouted an order. The guardsmen halted, and there was a beat before their officer called out their orders and pairs of men trotted on to take up positions guarding the streets and alleys immediately around the senator’s home. Once they were in place, the officer waved the litters forward and turned to salute Sempronius.
‘Sextus Afranius Burrus, Prefect of the Guard.’
Sempronius had not seen the man before, but knew the name. Burrus was one of the officers promoted in the last months of Claudius’s reign, on the advice of Pallas and the empress, and was a supporter of Nero’s accession.
There was no time to return the greeting, as the first of the litters had stopped in front of the entrance. The lead bearer quietly called out an instruction and the litter was lowered gently to the ground. There was a brief pause, during which Sempronius could hear a soft exchange of words, before a hand slipped out through the folds of the cloth draped over the litter and drew them aside. Gleaming red leather boots swung out, and then the emperor heaved himself on to his feet, stretching his back. He affected to ignore Sempronius as he offered his hand to his mother, and a moment later Agrippina stood at his side, her carefully arranged hair slightly awry as she pulled up her stola to cover her shoulder. Sempronius glimpsed a small red patch, like a bite mark, on her neck, and instantly shifted his gaze away.
Slipping his arm round his mother’s waist, Nero turned to the senator and spoke in a tone that suggested a chance meeting on the street.
‘Ah! My dear Senator Sempronius! A pleasure to see you.’
Sempronius bowed. ‘The pleasure is mine, imperial highness.’
‘I’m sure. But let us not dwell on formalities. We are all friends now.’
‘You honour me.’
Nero wafted a hand dismissively before he continued. ‘I am told that you are entertaining friends tonight. A feast apparently.’
Sempronius nodded. ‘A modest gathering.’
‘By palace standards, I am sure. I understand that you have my stepbrother amongst your guests.’
‘Yes, imperial highness.’
Nero stepped closer to Sempronius so that their faces were no more than a foot apart. He stared at the senator in silence, and then suddenly tilted his head and tapped him on the chest. ‘Like I said, let’s keep this informal. You may address me as Nero tonight.’
The passenger in the other litter had climbed out and was approaching. As he moved into the loom of the flames from the braziers, Sempronius identified Pallas. The imperial freedman was wearing a purple silk tunic beneath a soft wool cape. Gold and jewels glittered on his fingers.
Nero turned to him. ‘Britannicus is here, just like you said.’
Pallas smiled thinly. ‘Of course. The question is, why is he here?’
The enquiry was directed at Sempronius, but the freedman continued smiling at the emperor, as if the senator was some flunkey waiting on the imperial party. Sempronius swallowed anxiously. Pallas turned his dark eyes towards him.
‘Well, Senator?’
‘I worked closely with Emperor Claudius, and got to know Britannicus from an early age. It was my duty to look out for him then, as it is now. I feel I owe that to his father, who was always kind to me and acted as my patron.’
‘Very noble of you.’ Nero smiled. ‘I am sure my late father would be grateful for the kindness you have shown his flesh and blood. Now, if you will be so good as to lead us through to the feast. We’re famished. Come!’
Without waiting to be invited, the emperor and his mother swept over the threshold and headed across the modest hall towards the corridor that led through the house to the courtyard. Pallas left orders for Burrus to make sure that no one entered or left the house without first seeking the permission of the freedman, and then strode after them. Sempronius hurried to catch up and fell into stride beside him.
‘I’d have appreciated some notice of this,’ he said softly but sharply.
‘And I would have appreciated some notice of Britannicus’s whereabouts. He left the palace without notifying anyone. He wasn’t missed until the imperial family sat down to dinner. When he didn’t appear, it didn’t take long for one of his slaves to cough up the truth. With things as they are, I am sure you can understand that there might be a degree of suspicion regarding Britannicus’s unexplained a
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