The Course of Honour (23 page)

 

First:
The Civic Escort

Caenis popularly pointed out this was a good time to eat the picnic, while everyone was bored. With reasonable tolerance for sickness, bad manners and the distant funerals of rich provincial aunts, most of the knights and many representatives of the people turned up: it took some time getting them all past.

 

Second:
Flutes

Very pleasant. In the first Triumph there had been trumpets at this point; some of the trumpets had gone out of tune in the heat. It needed a good ear to notice, but Caenis had winced. Flutes were much more amenable.

 

Third:
The Spoils of War

While this lengthy part of the parade was going by people in the crowd had a chance to give sticky melon slices to their children and soothe the babies who were suffering from heatstroke.

Born aloft by stout lads in laurel wreaths came yet more trophies
seized in battle: armour, weapons, dragonesque embossed shields, wonderful light wicker chariots—followed by treasure: huge twisted golden torques and enamelled harnesses and gear—then representations of places where the army had fought: models and pictures of fortresses, towns and islands, living statues of weed-shrouded river gods, all with their outlandish names painted on boards:
Camulodunum, Caesaromagus, Durnovaria, Vectis Insula,
and the warlike tribes too: The
Catuvellauni
, the
Trinovantes
, and Vespasian's wild opponents in the west: the
Dubonni, Durotriges, Belgae
and
Dumnonii
, against whom he fought his thirty battles and from whom he wrested twenty savage hilltop settlements.

This strange stuff left people so confused and argumentative that Veronica made them all change stools.

 

Fourth:
The White Ram Prepared for Sacrifice

With gilded horns, trailing garlands and scarlet ribbons, the magnificent beast was escorted by a string of priests all bearing implements and sacred vessels, with strong wafts of incense, and accompanied by cymbals, triangles and flutes. Veronica's party had by then drunk most of their wine, but the lull while the religious throng intoned its way past provided a good opportunity to open up what remained.

 

Fifth:
The Principal Captives

No one knew the names of these British captives since Togodumnus was dead and Caratacus still remained at large. Still, captives there were, and some were duly tattooed with vigorous patterns in blue woad. They had long limbs, white skin, light hair, and pale eyes in blue or grey. Among the sky-scraping buildings, the forests of statues and the roar of thousands of Romans in raucous holiday mood, they looked apprehensive and bemused. Veronica threw them a few stuffed dates, but they only shied away.

 

Sixth:
The Commander-in-Chief's Escort of Lictors

Smarter than ever, though today without the axes they normally carried among their official bundles of staves. All in red. A splendid show.

 

Seventh:
Lyre Players and Dancers

Exulting over the vanquished enemy. Extremely tiring to do, but fun to watch.

 

Eighth:
The Victorious General

Aulus Plautius, a surprisingly small man, looking worried by the capering of his huge white horse; he wore magisterial robes and a heavy myrtle wreath. He was extremely popular. At his side:

 

Ninth:
The Emperor Claudius Britannicus

Caenis by now had a splitting headache.

 

Tenth:—

‘I'm terribly sorry,' Caenis murmured in apology, as she clambered over knees and baskets with the embarrassment and relief a woman feels after she has brought herself to the point of saying what she has been too shy to mention for three-quarters of an hour. ‘I just can't wait any longer. It must be the excitement. Tell me what I miss. Veronica, where's this famous lavatory of yours?'

 

Tenth:
The Chief Officers of the Conquering Legions

Caenis took her time.

Even so, she badly misjudged it.

 

When she finally returned the noise was at its height. The spectators, swaying fearlessly on scaffolds, could hardly contain themselves as before the legions in full dress parade filled the streets, one by one drawn in chariots at their head they came: the four famous legates who commanded them.

The cheers had become frantic. People were scrambling up pillars to try to find a better view. The air was thick with flung flowers. Everyone was on their feet. Veronica, scarlet faced with exertion, was jumping up and down in hysteria. She was clapping her hands and flinging violets and roses, then olives from the picnic, as every new legate passed.

Caenis, returning, was manhandled joyously by the others in their group back over wine-jars and fallen chairs to her previous place at the front. Veronica mouthed something; Caenis grappled in the picnic case for tasty morsels to calm everybody down. While she was away the legates of the
legio XIV Gemina
, the
legio IX Hispana
, and the
legio XX Valeria
had all come by at a snail-pace crawl. Now away at the Capitol, Aulus Plautius, supported by the Emperor, began the last long climb up the Gemonian Steps, which by tradition he had to do on his knees; behind them the whole tail of the procession suddenly clogged up, faltered, swayed, and juddered temporarily to a halt.

A standard-bearer in his fanged bearskin who was forced to stop, planted the tripod feet of a legionary eagle on the tufa pavement where they skidded awkwardly; the silver-winged eagle lurched as he adjusted his aching fingers on the handle grip. Attached to the pole, which was garlanded with greenery, were two triangular emblem plates: Pegasus and Capricorn, which had been the symbol of the Emperor Augustus; above them was displayed the legion's number and name. Behind the standard that must always mark his position for his men, the legate of the
legio II Augusta
came to a standstill, rocking gently on his heels as he rested his hands on the front rim of his ceremonial chariot.

‘Vespasian!'
the crowds roared, bursting their lungs at this marvellous stroke of luck. The Hero of Britain, Flavius Vespasianus, folded his arms while he waited, and nodded absently to the crowd. The Hero of Britain: twelve feet away from Caenis, immediately below.

 

Hoarse with anguished adulation, Veronica clutched her throat.

‘
Io Triumphe!
My darling, will you look at him—the Hero! Your lovely Sabine friend!'

Caenis had never seen her Sabine friend in uniform before.

He gleamed with bronze and glittered with buckles and medals in chased enamelware. Four honorary batons were tucked under one great arm. Much of him was hidden beneath breastplate and boots and the heavy scarlet swirls of his commanding officer's cloak. His
hair looked thinner and the strong distinctive neck was invisible beneath the knotted wisp of a regulation scarf, but nothing could disguise the crank of that nose or the glorious upward angle of his chin. The wreath that he should have been wearing with such pride had dipped casually over one ear.

Someone had thrown a froth of rose petals that were clinging to his shoulder-clasp. He was brushing them off; they drifted languidly as far as the hem of his woollen cloak. All around him was ecstasy; trumpet blasts; cheers and screams. He stayed utterly himself. He glanced back at his officers, turning up his eyes to heaven at the delay while he gave the young men behind, who were grinning back, an amiable frown. He thrust out his lower lip. He reached for his chin with the back of his hand as if he wanted to stifle a yawn. Caenis smiled. Anyone who knew him could recognise that the Hero of Britain was seriously bored.

Veronica was squealing with despair. ‘Oh Juno! There's nothing left to throw—'

Snatching it off, she tossed down her limp parsley crown; Caenis leant a little over the balustrade, laughing, as she watched the dark sorry skein twist slightly before it bumped past his tunic skirt and landed on the tip of the legate's ornamented boot, like something slightly unpleasant marring the silver gilt below his sturdy knee. Vespasian flexed one leg to flick it off. He glanced down.

Then he looked up.

 

Caenis realised the world was very sad.

She supposed he saw a balcony like all the others he had passed, crammed with vulgar people screeching and waving stupid hats. She could tell at once that he had noticed her, standing silent at the front, for his face automatically cleared. A woman in a white dress. He used to say, white made her seem invisible; he liked her best in blue.

It was six years since Caligula was assassinated by Chaerea. The man below had spent a year and a half in Germany while Narcissus organised the landing force, then nearly four in Britain, and almost twelve months handing over the Second to his successor before making
his way back to Rome. He would be thirty-eight on 17 November. Caenis was—whatever age she was. She had a fair idea: the same as he. Even a little older perhaps. Yet she looked down at Vespasian with a clear, unashamed gaze, for she kept the comfortable habit of still thinking herself a girl, standing at the eager threshold of life. (Sometimes Caenis made herself wonder how long this habit could go on.)

Everything passes.

Feeling nothing so much as mournful regret, Caenis could see that Vespasian felt touched by a similar moment himself. He looked thoughtful, and a little melancholy.

He had everything now. It would be easy to feel jealous—yet so much less tiring at her age to be conventionally tolerant instead! She had always known he would be famous. She had once asked him to remember her, when he was. It did not seem important any more. Yet she knew he did remember. The quiet recollection flickered in his face; she permitted a pale acknowledgement to answer in her own. She was glad that she had known the man; glad too that she had seen him come to this.

Old friends. Two people who knew nothing now of each other's lives, nor ever would, nor even wanted to. Two people merely happy, amidst a clamour that was disturbing to them both, to recognise some stillness and calm in an old familiar face.

He was still looking up.

‘Do something!' squeaked Veronica. Then in horror, ‘Caenis,
don't do that
!' Caenis had something from the picnic ready to hand.

His face lit.

‘Caenis—no!'

Vespasian, expectant, lifted his chin. Caenis leant out, held his eye for a second and a half, then lobbed her gift.
‘Io Vespasiane!'

She had thrown it straight at him: he trapped it against his brilliant armour with one wrist. It was half a Lucanian salami. Veronica collapsed.

Somebody pulled Caenis back before she fell. Laughing, laughing with him, she struggled to keep her feet so she could see.

The procession jerked. The chariot moved. The crowd were acclaiming him; his business was with the crowd.

‘Io Vespasiane! Triumphe Io!'

After him his officers stiffly marched past. Then after them the whole street became dappled with the reflected light that flashed off the armour of Vespasian's marching troops.

Veronica whimpered, ‘O Juno, Caenis. Oh my heart! What did he do?'

Caenis, though she realised she must be white as theatrical chalk, managed to speak complaisantly enough. ‘Tucked it under his elbow, in a bundle with his batons—saving it for later, I dare say!'

‘Did he smile? Did he wave?
Did you see what he did with my crown?
'

‘Always was a surly bastard,' Caenis said.

‘Turn round here!' commanded Veronica, above a new wave of commotion from the crowd.
‘What else?'

‘He saluted,' Caenis said, in a faint voice that her friend could hardly catch above the row. ‘Actually, I think he saluted me.'

There was nothing for it: Caenis turned around.

Then Veronica could see that all the kohl with which Caenis had earlier that morning outlined those great cynical eyes was now streaking down her face. Caenis was by nature incompetent with cosmetics, but Veronica had done her best to train her, so she was not as bad as that. She was crying.

Veronica still thought Caenis had never enjoyed much of a life. Which was why, since she understood these things, she spoke quite gently, explaining to her friend in simple terms the sterner points of military etiquette: ‘Darling, be fair. What choice did he have? You can't expect Vespasian, the Hero of Britain, to salute
a Lucanian sausage!
' Veronica said.

 

 

 

 

When the Caesars were Claudius and Nero
But not Britannicus

 

 

 

 

T
hey had fourteen years, almost, of the new order under Claudius.

It was a long time for any government; long enough, at any rate, for people to forget what things were like before. As long as it took for the child Britannicus, who had been born at the moment when his father was propelled so quaintly to the throne, to arrive within sight of his coming-of-age.

Fourteen years. Then Claudius ate a dish of mushrooms which disagreed with him so violently he died. But what happened to Britannicus had begun some years before. It started with his mother.

By the time Narcissus called the secret conference about Valeria Messalina, Britannicus was seven. He had been familiar with crowds all his life; while he was small Claudius loved to hold him up in the amphitheatre and cry, ‘Good luck to you, my boy!' The audience always roared it back with enthusiasm; Britannicus was popular. He became tall for his age, showing character and quick wits. The Claudians were in general a good-looking family (Caenis believed a few more snub noses and squints might have produced more sensible Claudians). Even the Emperor himself, in repose, stopped slobbering and twitching and looked a handsome man. His wife, Messalina, possessed captivating looks: their son became an attractive child. Good luck he never possessed, however.