loose and lacking in proper formality they may be. He's distressed to have learned of the condition in which you are obliged to live and now I see it for myself, well, I'm horrified, that a lady like you, of your birth, one who has been so kind to us, to me as a child, should be living like this. I remember that when poor Britannicus, my dearest friend, was so cruelly murdered – I can call it murder here, I suppose, though it would be as much as my life is worth to speak the word in other quarters – I remember then that when I wept, you dried my tears and comforted me, and that in the terrible days after, when I became like a little boy again, it was with your help and thanks to your sympathy and wise words that I was able to recover and resume my life. So, to see you confined in this miserable apartment makes me sad. More than that, it disgusts me. So, if there's anything I can do, anything my father can do – not that he can do much because, in my opinion, he clings to office, to his own position and perhaps even to his life by bare fingernails and fortune -well, just let me know. I really am devoted to you and your interest.'
He spoke beautifully, if a little incoherently, but that, it seemed, was evidence of his sincerity. The words tumbled forth, unbidden, straight from the heart, I couldn't doubt. My mother, of course, received them with gracious reserve, as her due. Whatever our circumstances, she was a great lady, a Claudian, while Vespasian and his family were parvenus – parvenus moreover who had not actually succeeded in arriving. But she was charmed by Titus nevertheless. Who wasn't in those days?
I have only to close my eyes to see him clearly: tall, long-legged, blond, his hair worn rather long and waved, his skin translucent, despite the African sun, nose short and straight, eyes cornflower blue, lips a little loose, the upper very slightly overhanging the lower, as if stung by a bee. And I can hear him, too: a beautiful voice, rather light, almost girlish in its upper notes, but saved from effeminacy by a few residual long Sabine vowels, caught from his father, or perhaps a childhood nurse. Then, just as his voice was rescued from the suspicion of affectation by this underlying strength, so too his manner, which might have seemed that of the self-consciously elegant dandy, was saved by a certain clumsiness – his feet were too large and he was inclined to knock things over with sudden movement.
I have given myself away, haven't I? Yes, while I listened to him and then poured him wine with a hand that I could not prevent from shaking, I fell headlong in love, as only a fourteen-year-old boy can fall in love, with an intensity in which hero-worship quite superseded any physical desire. I simply wanted to be with him, all the time from then on, to be noticed by him, cherished by him, and permitted to serve him.
I was not disappointed. Titus, though naturally I was ignorant of this, already deserved the reputation that clung to him in later years, of a great coureur – I use the Greek because we have no Latin term that so exactly fits – of both boys and women. And, if I may say so, I was in those days worth running after, and accustomed to being eyed and ogled and propositioned at the baths: I was athletic and slim; my face was framed by tumbling black curls, my skin was creamy, my eyes the darkest of browns and large, my nose straight, and my lips – as Titus was to say – were 'made for the madness of kisses'. In short, though I say it myself, in the knowledge that this passage will arouse your stern moralist's disapproval, I was what the pederasts who thronged the baths used to call in my day 'a peach'. I never allowed their admiration to go beyond flirtation, in which like so many pretty boys I excelled, taking a lively delight in fanning an ardour which I had no intention of satisfying. But it was different with Titus, though at first I took care not to allow him to gain the easy victory that I anticipated with relish.
I dwell on this, because that visit of Titus to my mother would determine the course of my life. It would lead me to action in Judaea, to military renown, to joy and heartache, and I think now that it also aroused Domitian's jealousy – though there were to be other, perhaps more substantial, reasons for that.
But now, when Titus smiled on me and said, 'I've been out of the city for so long, I'm almost a stranger. Will you be my guide, kid?' what could I do but say yes, blushing with delight and hoping that neither my mother nor Titus himself fully comprehended why the colour should flood into my cheeks?
First love… no, it is too painful to dwell on now and, besides, my old friend, it is not what you want to hear. You are interested, are you not, in political history. It was Titus, however, who aroused my interest in that, too. For him dalliance, flirtation, love-making were mere pastimes. Politics was his consuming interest, and it was not long before he began my political education, not without some disparaging remarks about his little brother Domitian, who would, he said, never amount to anything, and was not therefore worth the trouble of trying to enlighten, even on the dangers that threatened their family.
'I have to admit,' he said, 'that my father's position is precarious. He clings to office only because he has not distinguished himself in any way, and so is not seen as a threat by the buffoon on the Palatine' -this being his normal fashion of referring to the Emperor.
Nero, he told me, hated soldiers. He was not only jealous of any who had ever achieved military renown; he both feared and detested them. 'It can't last,' Titus said. 'Rome is its army first and foremost, and it is impossible that the Empire should be governed by a man that the legions have learned to despise.' He smiled and ran his hand through my curls to fondle my cheek, then let his fingers dance along the line of my lips. You won't talk of this, will you, now? It would be as much as my life is worth. In speaking to you in this manner I am indeed putting my life in your hands. But then where could it better be?' I nibbled his finger like a pet dog. One day that summer Titus sought permission from my mother, to whom he was unfailingly courteous, that I might accompany him for a few days to a villa near Laurentum which belonged to his uncle Flavius Sabinus, who then held the post of Prefect of the City. My mother, who knew and approved of the passionate friendship between me and Titus, naturally consented, though she declined the suggestion that she, too, should accompany us.
'No,' she said, 'such a visit would recall happier days to me, and disturb the accommodation with misfortune which I have made.' My revered mother, for all her virtues, was inclined to take pleasure in her misery.
'Don't you think you should invite Domitian, too?' I said. 'He'll be awfully put out if you don't.'
'Not he. My little brother has already accepted an invitation from his admirer, Claudius Pollio, to join him for a few days hunting in the Alban Hills. It seems that my brother would rather kill wild animals than enjoy the beauties of the seaside and the pleasure it can offer.'
The villa was indeed beautiful. I need not describe it, for you know it well, my dear Tacitus, since it was later bought by our friend Pliny and you have often been a guest there yourself.
So you will recall – though with less immediate pleasure than I do – that portico beyond the garden, that looks out on to the sea which lies below it, separated by a sandy beach and a rocky hillside covered with juniper and thyme. On the terrace before the portico we lay one afternoon after bathing in an air fragrant with the scent of violets. We had lunched on prawns, caught that morning, cheese, olives and the first peaches of the season, and had drunk a flask of Falernian. Titus was in his most affectionate mood, and then we slept a little.
When we woke the sun had moved round and a cool breeze blew from the sea.
'I didn't bring you here only for pleasure,' Titus said, 'but because there is nowhere I know where I think more clearly than in this charming place, and I wish to share my thoughts with you. You are only a boy, but you will soon be a man and will enter on the world which I myself am only beginning to understand.
'I have said to you before that Nero's rule cannot last, any more than Caligula's did. One year? Two? Five? No more than that, surely. He is despised by the soldiers and the aristocracy alike. He spends his time in pursuits which, while they might be thought tolerable if indulged in by a private citizen, are quite ridiculous in an Emperor: acting, singing, taking part in chariot-races. You can't wonder that I think him a buffoon.
'But he is a bloody-minded buffoon. He is a coward, and all cowards are dangerous. You, kid, belong by birth to the highest rank of the old aristocracy, as I don't. There is scarcely a single man of your birth who does not view Nero with contempt. They know how to get rid of Emperors. How many of those who have ruled the state have died natural deaths?' 'Augustus himself,' I replied. Tiberius perhaps.'
'Exactly. Pompey was murdered. Julius Caesar also, Gaius Caligula, and in my opinion Claudius. And none of them was as despised as Nero. So he can't last.'
I looked out to sea. It was calm, deep blue, untroubled. If I had been alone I might have fancied I could hear the Sirens sing. I nibbled a stem of grass. Titus ruffled my hair.
'Last week,' he said, 'I was made party to a conspiracy. At least I think I was. Hints were dropped. There were many 'if onlys' and 'do you thinks'. I turned away. Why did I do that, kid?'
'Do you want an answer?' I said. 'Or is the question addressed to yourself? And why are you telling me this? Isn't it dangerous? Dangerous, I mean, to speak of these things.'
'Nero murdered my friend, Britannicus,' he said. 'Nero has no children, brothers or nephews. Do you realise what that means? It means that when he is… disposed of, as he will be, somehow, the Empire will be a prize to be won. The secret of Empire will be revealed: that Emperors can be made elsewhere than in Rome. Emperors will
