Agrippina! Her campaign to endear herself to the people certainly seems to be working, to judge by their reaction at the Troy Pageant. And once the cheering started, the spotty-faced brat stepped in front of his mother and began turning this way and that, smiling and making gestures to the crowd – what do you actors call it, Mnester, ‘milking’ the audience for applause?”
Mnester grunted, trying to stay out of the conversation.
“Then Agrippina announced that Nero would be participating in the Troy Pageant, despite the fact that he was only nine and the other boys were all older, and down he went to put on his mock armour and take up a wooden sword and mount his pony. More cheering! Though I must admit, for a nine-year-old, he handled himself rather well on horseback.”
“Born to ride,” muttered Mnester.
Messalina snorted. “What a little showman! Precocious, Claudius calls him, as if that were a compliment. Some people find his affectations charming; I think there’s something repulsive about the boy. And about his mother as well. Parading one’s sorrows in public and seeking accolades from the mob is terribly vulgar, don’t you think?”
Her gaze demanded a response. Mnester gave Titus another surreptitious kick, and Titus vigorously nodded his head.
“It’s so obvious what the scheming vixen has in mind,” said Messalina. “She thinks her little Nero should be the next emperor.”
“Surely not,” said Titus.
“Claudius isn’t getting any younger, and Nero will reach his toga day ahead of Britannicus, and the brat is a direct descendant of Augustus. Of course, so was Caligula, and we all know how that ended.”
“Do you really think Agrippina is thinking that far ahead?”
“Of course! The maudlin memoir, the way she grooms Nero and presents him in public, her fawning deference to Claudius, her calculated role as the virtuous widow – oh yes, with Agrippina everything is a means to an end. She and that whelp of hers need to carefully watched.”
Mnester rolled farther away. The coverlet slipped and exposed his meaty buttocks. Messalina abruptly picked up the whip with the ivory handle and gave him a cracking lash across his backside. “What are you smirking at?”
“I wasn’t smirking, Lycisca!” Mnester hid his face in a cushion and his whole body trembled. Titus thought he was quaking with fear until he realized that the actor was trying to hide his laughter.
“You lout!” Messalina gave him another lash.
“Please, Lycisca!” cried Mnester, though to Titus it appeared that he made no effort to avoid the blow, but instead raised his hips and wriggled them a bit. So far, Messalina had spared Titus the whip, and though it was stimulating to see a naked, well-built fellow like Mnester take a thrashing, he did not care to receive one himself, not even from Messalina. Also, he was tired. If this was the prelude to more lovemaking, Titus was not sure he was up for it.
He need not have worried. The conversation had put Messalina in a foul mood, and Mnester’s giggling had cooled her ardour. She told Titus to dress, and when he was again in his trabea, she handed him a little sack of coins.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Your fee. Isn’t it customary to pay an augur for his services?”
“But I performed no augury.”
“Nonetheless, you performed. And your wife will be expecting you to bring home a little something to add to the household coffers, won’t she? Now off with you.”
“Will you want to see me again?” Titus asked.
“Who knows? No, don’t pout! I hate it when men pout. You were a raging stallion, you were an elemental force of nature, you made me melt with ecstasy – honestly. Of course I’ll want to see you again. But now get out!”
Titus left the house on the Esquiline with mixed feelings. An afternoon of debauched lovemaking was the last thing he had expected that day, and to be paid for his services made him feel a bit like a spintria, as people had taken to calling the male prostitutes of the city, adapting the word that Tiberius had coined. Still, his performance must have been superior, for Messalina, who clearly could have any man she wanted, said she would want to see him again.
The autumn day was short. Shadows were gathering; it was the hour for lighting lamps in the streets. Tripping lightly down the slope of the Esquiline and passing through the Subura, Titus passed the alley that led to the shabby tenement where Kaeso lived. What a dreadfully dull existence his brother led, compared to his own eventful life.
AD 48
Days passed, and then months, and Titus received no further summons from Messalina. He felt a bit piqued that she seemed to have forgotten him, but it was probably for the best. His afternoon as Lycisca’s plaything had been a novel experience, but when he thought of the danger, it took his breath away. Besides, Titus was quite happy with his home life. No man had ever had a more loving wife than his Chrysanthe.
It was from Chrysanthe, of all people, that Titus heard the rumour that explained why Messalina had lost interest in him. “You won’t believe what I heard from the neighbor’s wife this morning,” she said one day when Titus returned home from performing an augury at a temple on the Quirinal Hill.
“Try me.”
“It’s about the emperor’s wife.”
“Oh?” Titus attempted to look only mildly curious.
“Everyone knows she’s a wanton woman.”
“Really? I’ve always heard that Messalina is a steadfast wife and mother.”
Chrysanthe made a rude sound. “That would describe the emperor’s niece, Agrippina, but hardly his wife. You are clearly in the dark about that woman, husband, as is your friend the emperor. Of course it’s no surprise that Messalina should have taken an occasional lover. Claudius is so much older, and based on the behaviour of previous members of the ruling family, starting with the Divine Augustus’s daughter, it seems these imperial women are incapable of behaving decently. But now Messalina may have gone too far. They say she’s settled on a single lover, the senator Gaius Silius. That was how Silius got himself appointed consul this year, through Messalina’s influence.”
Titus had met the man. He was young for a consul, broad shouldered, undeniably handsome, vain, and ambitious – just the sort of man Messalina might take for a lover. “Go on.”
“The shocking thing is, she calls Silius ‘husband.’ Can you imagine? As if Claudius didn’t exist. Or soon might not exist.”
“How could the neighbour’s wife possibly know such a thing?”
“Slaves talk,” Chrysanthe said. This was her standard explanation for the otherwise inexplicable transmission of certain rumours. She raised her eyebrows. “They say Claudius is so addled, he truly knows nothing about it.”
Titus was briefly struck by the irony that Chrysanthe, who was young and had all her faculties, had never suspected Titus’s infidelity. The omniscient slaves had stayed quiet about that, at least!
Titus frowned. Chrysanthe’s news, if it was true, posed a dilemma. Could Messalina seriously be thinking of doing away with Claudius? Had she carried her play-acting as Lycisca to a stage beyond harmless dalliance, to the point that she was considering murder and a palace revolt? If so, surely Titus had an obligation to warn his old friend and mentor about Messalina’s seditious behaviour, but how could he do so without compromising himself?
He would have to sleep on the matter.
Titus lost no sleep that night over the question of Messalina and her new “husband.” He simply pushed the
