Empire - Saylor Steven (читать полные книги онлайн бесплатно TXT) 📗
The elder Vespasian was also present, along with his wife, who held their newborn son. In his early forties, Vespasian was a veteran of thirty battles in the newly conquered province of Britannia. His victories had earned him a public triumph in which young Titus had ridden alongside him in the chariot, and he had been rewarded with a consulship, the highest office to which a citizen could aspire. With a large nose, a mouth too small for his fleshy face, and a heavy, furrowed brow, Vespasian was not handsome; he had the perpetual expression of a man straining to empty his bowels. His family fortune had started with his father, a tax collector in the province of Asia, but the Flavians were otherwise obscure. Behind his back, members of the imperial court complained of Vespasian’s uncouth manners and flagrant social climbing. To Titus Pinarius, on the few occasions when they had spoken, Vespasian had seemed forthright and without pretense, as befitted a military man. It did not seem quite proper that Vespasian should have brought his two-month-old infant to such a ceremony, but clearly the general was eager to show the child off. To everyone who greeted him he insisted on introducing “the newest addition to the Flavians, my little Domitian.”
Titus’s gaze returned to the youth who was donning the toga of manhood that day. He found Nero to quite charming and surprisingly self-possessed for his age. At fourteen, he was a connoisseur of painting and sculpture, wrote poetry, and loved horses. He was tall but had an ungainly physique. A boy’s long-sleeved tunic had not been flattering to Nero’s thick neck, stocky trunk, and bony legs; he looked better in his purple-and-gold toga. His blonde hair glinted in the sunlight, and his flashing blue eyes were wide, taking in the scene. Nero enjoyed being the centre of attention.
Standing beside him was the young man’s adoptive father. Claudius looked more decrepit than ever. The poor fellow had never been the same after his discovery of Messalina’s bigamy and the bloodbath that followed. Titus still felt a chill when he remembered how Claudius had expected Messalina at dinner on the very night that he ordered her death. And on the morning that followed, Claudius sent messages to some of the executed men inviting them to play dice, and complained when they didn’t come. He sent petulant messages accusing them of staying abed and being too lazy to reply. “Sleepy-heads,” he called them, forgetting that by his order they had lost their heads altogether.
On the other side of Nero stood his tutor, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, a bearded man in his forties, wearing a senator’s purple-bordered toga. Seneca was an accomplished man of letters, famous for his many books and plays. Messalina had talked Claudius into exiling Seneca, but Agrippina had arranged for his return, and had charged Seneca with giving Nero the most refined education possible.
The ceremony commenced. When the time arrived for the taking of the auspices, all eyes turned to Titus. He began with a short speech about the subject of his augury, whose full name, since his adoption by the emperor, was Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus.
“As many of you know, the name Nero comes from an old Sabine word meaning ‘strong and valiant,’ and those who have seen this young man perform on horseback and wield arms in the Troy Pageant know that he is worthy of his name,” said Titus. The appreciative applause for this pretty turn of phrase was cut short by a sudden outburst of crying from Vespasian’s newborn. Titus frowned. The baby’s wailing grew louder, until at last his mother carried little Domitian away. Vespasian, who seemed unperturbed by the interruption, wriggled his fingers at the departing infant.
Titus loudly cleared his throat and proceeded.
With his lituus he marked a segment of the sky. At midwinter, with few birds in Roma, patience might be required for the observation, but almost at once Titus saw a pair of vultures. They were quite far away, circling above the private racetrack Caligula had built for himself beyond the Tiber on the Vatican Hill. Titus waited, hoping to see more, but eventually he felt the crowd grow restive. He declared the auspices well and truly taken and announced that they were very good. In fact, the auspices had been only mildly favourable, almost non-committal. Claudius, standing behind him and able to see what Titus saw, would have known this, had he been watching; but when Titus glanced over his shoulder, he saw the emperor staring at the ground.
There were more speeches, and then Nero was called on to parade before the assembly wearing his toga. He did so with a swagger that was almost comical. (Titus was reminded of Messalina’s derisive comment: “What a little showman!”) No one laughed, though it seemed to Titus that Vespasian might have smirked; with his expression of perpetual constipation, it was hard to tell. At last the company retired to the imperial residence for the banquet, passing the armour of the Divine Augustus in the forecourt and the ancient laurel trees that flanked the massive bronze doors.
“Just how old is the emperor?” Chrysanthe asked Titus, after they had settled onto their couches and been served the first course of olives stuffed with anchovies. She was gazing at Claudius, who shared a couch with Agrippina across the room.
Titus calculated in his head. “Sixty-one, I think. Why do you ask?”
“When we first came to Roma ten years ago, I thought he was old then, but he was so much more alive. Remember how excited he was to show us the city? Now he seems withered, like a tree that’s had its roots cut and might fall at any moment.”
“All his drinking doesn’t help,” noted Titus as he watched a serving boy refill the emperor’s cup. Chrysanthe was right. His cousin was more doddering than ever. What a contrast Agrippina presented. She was positively effervescent, smiling and laughing and entertaining everyone in earshot with a very witty anecdote, to judge by the laughter she elicited. Nero reclined on his own couch nearby and gazed at his mother adoringly.
While Titus watched, Agrippina gestured to Nero. Obeying her request, the young man pulled back a fold of his purple toga to bare his right arm. Coiled like a snake around his biceps was a golden bracelet. Agrippina’s listeners nodded and made appreciative sounds.
“What’s that about?” asked Titus.
“He’s showing off his snake bracelet,” explained Chrysanthe. “Half the children in the city wear a bracelet like that now, though not made of solid gold. Inside that bracelet is the snakeskin that scared off an assassin sent by Messalina when Nero was in his crib. He wears the bracelet to show gratitude and devotion to his mother, and they say the snakeskin still protects him. Do you think we should have such a bracelet make for little Lucius?” Their son was in another room with his nurse, eating with the other children.
“Perhaps,” said Titus, though it occurred to him that a more appropriate talisman for his son would be the fascinum of their ancestors. Why had he allowed Kaeso to take it? Titus realized that he was clenching his teeth. He drove thoughts of his brother from his mind, refusing to let them spoil such a joyous occasion.
As the meal progressed and more wine flowed, guests began to move about the room, standing in small groups or sharing couches while they conversed. Titus worked his way to Nero’s couch. Agrippina stood nearby, as did Seneca. Standing next to Seneca was a woman about half his age, his wife, Pompeia Paulina.
“Teach my son all the poetry and rhetoric and history you want, I told Seneca, but no philosophy!” Agrippina was saying. “All those notions about Fate and free will and the slippery nature of reality – perhaps they’re amusing for people who have nothing better to think about, but they can be nothing but a handicap to a person like my son, who must be ready to assume such a heavy burden of responsibility.”
