Vespasian’s son Titus, friend and companion to Britannicus, had been ill ever since the meal at which Britannicus had had his fatal attack. I decided to visit him, as I knew his father so well, even if I had avoided Titus since I had joined Nero’s circle.
Titus was still thin and pale from his illness and he looked at me distrustfully when I arrived so unexpectedly with gifts for him. One could see the Etruscan ancestry of the Flavius family in his square face, his chin and nose, much more clearly than in his father. One had only to compare him for a moment with some Etruscan statue, and for me, recently returned from Caere, the likeness was amazingly clear.
“I’ve been in Caere ever since the Saturnalia celebrations,” I said, “and I’ve written an adventure story which I can perhaps make into a play. So I don’t know what’s been happening in Rome, although I’ve heard evil rumors. My name has also been mentioned in connection with Britan-nicus’ sudden death. You must know me well enough to believe no ill of me. Tell me the truth. How did Britannicus die?”
Titus looked at me without fear.
“Britannicus was my best and only friend,” he said. “One day I’ll give him a golden statue among the gods in the Capitoline. As soon as I’m well enough, I’ll go to my father in Britain. At that meal, I sat beside Britannicus. Nero did not permit us boys to lie at the table. It was a chilly evening and we had hot drinks. Britannicus’ cup-bearer deliberately offered him such a hot goblet that he himself burned his tongue when he tasted it. Britannicus asked for cold water in his goblet, drank and at once lost his power of speech and his sight. I snatched the goblet and took a sip from it. At once I felt dizzy and everything swam in front of my eyes. Fortunately I was only made violently ill. I have been sick ever since. Perhaps I would have died too, if I hadn’t vomited.”
“Then you think he really was poisoned and that you yourself drank some of the poison?” I asked, hardly able to believe my ears.
Titus looked at me seriously, boy that he was.
“I don’t think it,” he said. “I know it. Don’t ask me who the culprit is. It wasn’t Agrippina, anyhow, for she was appalled when it happened.”
“If that is true,” I said, “then I could believe that she poisoned Claudius, as rumor still persists she did.”
Titus stared pityingly at me with his almond-shaped eyes.
“Didn’t you even know that?” he said. “Even the dogs of Rome howled around Agrippina when she went down to the forum after the Praetorians had proclaimed Nero Emperor.”
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“Then power is a more terrible thing than I had thought,” I said. “Power is far too great to be borne by a single man, however skillful an adviser he may be,” said Titus. “None of Rome’s rulers has sustained it without being destroyed. I’ve had plenty of time to think about these things during my illness, and yet I still prefer to think well of people rather than evil. I think well of you too, for honorably coming here to ask me to tell you the truth. I know the Almighty creates actors, but I don’t think you are here to find out for Nero what I think about the death of my best friend. I know Nero too. He thinks now that he has bribed his friends to forget and he would prefer to forget it himself. But I had a knife ready, should you have come to injure me.”
He drew a dagger from under his pillow and threw it away, as if to show his complete confidence in me. But I did not think he trusted me absolutely. He spoke so deliberately and with such experience. We both jumped guiltily when a beautifully dressed young woman unexpectedly came into the room, followed by a slave-girl carrying a basket. The girl was as slim and broad-shouldered as Diana, her features fine but hard, and her hair was done in the Greek way in short curls. She looked inquiringly at me with her greenish eyes, and they seemed so familiar that I stared stupidly back.
“Don’t you know my cousin, Flavia Sabina?” asked Titus. “She visits me every day with the food the doctor prescribes and she herself super-vises the cooking of it. Won’t you join me, as my friend?”
I realized that the girl was the daughter of the Prefect of Rome, Flavius Sabinus, the elder brother of Vespasian. Perhaps I had seen her at some large banquet or in a festive procession, as she looked so familiar. I greeted her respectfully, but my tongue dried up in my mouth and I stared at her broad face as if bewitched.
Without looking in any way disturbed, she laid out a Spartan meal with her own hands. There was not even a jar of wine in the basket. I ate out of courtesy, but the food stuck in my throat as I looked at her, and I thought that no other woman had ever made such an impression on me at first sight.
I could not understand the reason for this. She showed no interest in me whatsoever; on the contrary, she was cool and hard, withdrawn into herself, silent but conscious of her position as daughter of the City Prefect. During the meal I was more and more tormented with the feeling that it was all a dream, and though we drank nothing but water, I felt slightly intoxicated.
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