pleased Macro; it was she that found out that Caligula was going to be summoned to Capreae.’
Vespasian admired the man’s duplicity, subtlety and nerve. He had indeed played a dangerous game, and had played it well, and would have guaranteed himself being on the winning side whoever won, had he not ended up being captured in the act of murder. ‘Why were you sent to kill our parents?’ he asked.
‘We weren’t; our orders were to take your mother to Livilla.’
‘What would Livilla want with her?’
‘Sejanus desperately wanted to know the identity of this witness and because he couldn’t get to Antonia he decided to ask one of her close confederates. Albucilla had mentioned your uncle’s name a few times to them and because Senator Pollo has been making a nuisance of himself in the Senate — as Albucilla said Sejanus put it — Sejanus calculated that he may know Antonia’s plans in some detail, so he sent some of Livilla’s men to his house to fetch him for an interview.’
‘Yes, we know. They didn’t find him,’ Sabinus said bitterly, ‘they just killed most of his household.’
Secundus shrugged. ‘We were to bring his sister along to help him with his memory. I was asked to come along because none of Livilla’s men knew what she looked like; Albucilla suggested I should accompany them because I’ve seen Senator Pollo a few times and would be able to recognise a family likeness.’
‘What about Sabinus and me?’ Vespasian asked.
‘You haven’t been mentioned by name, either in the bed or by Macro,’ Secundus replied, looking at the brothers shrewdly. ‘However, Albucilla said that two young men whom no one recognised were seen getting off the boat with the prisoner and then going into Antonia’s house. Perhaps it would be best if you stayed out of Rome for a while.’
‘We’ve every intention of doing so,’ Sabinus assured him.
‘So, what are you going to do with me?’ Secundus asked.
‘Livilla will send men here to find out what happened,’ Vespasian said. ‘They’ll find the place deserted and two funeral pyres; she’ll assume that you’re in one of them. Clemens will take you to Antonia where you can stay dead for a while whilst she decides what to do with you.’
‘What about my wife? Is she going to think that I’m dead?’
‘That’s down to Antonia to decide; I expect it will all depend on how loyal and useful you prove to be to her.’
‘Oh, I can be very useful.’
Vespasian smiled inwardly; he could well believe it. ‘Then you may find her grateful.’
‘She’ll be very grateful.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can give her the biggest prize of all. I can give her Sejanus.’
PART V
CHAPTER XIIII
‘Io, Io, Io, Saturnalia!’ Vespasian and Sabinus cried together as they came through the door of the triclinium at Vespasian’s estate at Cosa, bearing dishes of food.
‘Io, io, io Saturnalia,’ the few freedmen and house slaves that were left on the estate, along with Sextus and Marius, replied boisterously.
They reclined on the three couches around a low table and held their wine cups aloft in a toast to the annual festival of goodwill. All of them had been drinking steadily throughout the afternoon whilst Vespasian, Sabinus and Clementina had, with some help from the kitchen slave, prepared the meal. Vespasian and Sabinus placed the dishes on the table and Clementina did the rounds with the wine jug, replenishing the empty cups that had just been enthusiastically drained.
The room was decorated with the branches of fir trees and brightly berried holly; everyone within it, whether free, freed or slave, was wearing a brimless conical felt hat: the pileus, the symbol of manumission. All their tunics were brightly coloured, not the normal white, russet or plain undyed wool, but a dazzling array of clashing colours, worn only at this time during the year: the six-day-long festival of Saturn. This was the climax of the festival; the day when the household was turned upside down and masters waited on slaves and freedmen and they, in return, were allowed to be disrespectful (but not blatantly rude) back.
The diners surveyed the dishes of grilled fish with fennel and whole, roast suckling kid with a plum and caper sauce and made appreciative sounds.
‘That looks a lot better than the slop your wizened old grandmother used to turn out after her annual foray into the kitchen; if she could find it,’ Attalus, Tertulla’s steward and sparring companion, observed. ‘But I don’t suppose you spoilt young brats can remember the horrors of the old bat’s cooking?’
‘And I’ve no doubt that you let her know your exact feelings each year as she presented it, Attalus,’ Vespasian replied, laughing at the description of his grandmother by the one man who had probably loved her more than he.
‘On the contrary, boy, as you should remember.’ Attalus grinned as he again drained his cup. ‘Because I was allowed to be disrespectful to her over the Saturnalia it wasn’t nearly so much fun, so I used to be deferential, compliant and meek instead. The perfect slave, in other words. Six days of that used to drive her mad; she could never wait for the festival to be over. I sometimes think that she used to make her “King for the day” feast awful on purpose, just to get me to make a sarcastic remark about it; but I never did, I ate every morsel of the ghastly swill that the daft old cow put in front of me. An act of genius, but then, I was always far more clever than any of your family.’ He held his cup in the air and waved it at Clementina. ‘Fill this up, wench, to the brim, just like you’ve been.’
Raucous laughter broke out around the room; Clementina reddened but smiled as she automatically put her hand on her swollen belly, and hurried around the table to serve him.
Sabinus bristled slightly but managed to join in the laughter; the comment had not been malicious and was well within the spirit of the Saturnalia, which he still enjoyed despite his new religion; he now looked on it as a prelude to the solemnity of celebrating the birth of Mithras in a few days’ time. ‘If you think that those two dishes look edible, Attalus,’ he cried, ‘just wait until you see the others. I think that even a starving Gallic sailor who’d been at sea for a month would shy at them.’
This brought another round of rowdy laughter; Gauls were not known for their nautical abilities or their culinary skills.
‘Clementina, my dear, would you distribute the gifts whilst we fetch the remaining dishes?’ Sabinus asked, pointing to a collection of wax candles, earthenware figurines and the pile of new tunics on a table in the corner of the room.
Clementina smiled prettily at her husband. ‘My pleasure, Sabinus.’
Sabinus smiled back at his new wife and left the room.
Vespasian followed him out, full of of seasonal wellbeing. He had always loved the Saturnalia; it cheered him up, which was exactly what it had been designed for when it had been first brought in almost 250 years before to bring joy to the Roman people after the disastrous defeat at Lake Trasimene at the hands of Hannibal, where over fifteen thousand Roman sons, brothers and fathers had been killed. It had originally been just a one-day celebration but had grown over the years. Humourists suggested that because the year after Trasimene over fifty thousand Romans were killed at Cannae an extra day was added to cheer people up even more.
Vespasian did not know the truth of the matter but enjoyed the macabre wit. He was pleased to have his spirits lifted; it had been a long and difficult five months at Cosa. He had not been bored — there had been so much to do around the estate, which had fallen slightly into decline in the two and a half years since Tertulla’s death. Attalus had done his best to keep it running smoothly since but because in her will she had freed all her slaves the
