Darkness and Dawn; Or, Scenes in the Days of Nero. An Historic Tale

by F. W. Farrar

But such a day to-morrow as to-day,

And to be boy eternal.’

Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale, i. 2.

There were few youths in Rome more deserving of pity than the son of Claudius. Britannicus saw himself not only superseded, but deliberately neglected and thrust into the background. The intrigues of his stepmother had succeeded, and he, the true heir to the Empire, was a cipher in the Palace of the Cæsars. The suite of apartments assigned to his use and that of his immediate attendants was in one of the least frequented parts of the Palace. He often heard from the banquet hall and reception rooms, as he passed by them unnoticed, the sounds of revelry, in which he was only allowed on rare occasions to participate. Agrippina, in her varying moods, treated him sometimes with studied coolness and insulting patronage, sometimes with a sort of burning and maudlin affection, as though she were touched by the furies of remorse. The latter mood was more intolerable to him than the former. Sometimes, when she strained him to her steely heart, he felt as if he could have thrust her from him with loathing, and he made his relations with her more difficult because he was too little of an actor to conceal his dislike. Nero usually met him with sneering banter, but he, too, at times, seemed as though he would like to be treated by him with at least the semblance of brotherly cordiality. He found his chief comfort in the society of Octavia. She was, nominally, the Empress, and Nero, though he shunned her to the utmost of his power, had not yet dared to rob her of the dignities which surrounded her exalted rank. It was in the company of his sister that Britannicus spent his happiest hours. Octavia, as often as she dared, invited him to be present on festive occasions, and in her apartments he could find refuge for a time from the most detested of the spies with whom his stepmother had surrounded him from his early boyhood.

There was but one person about him whom he really trusted and loved. It was the centurion Pudens, who, being one of the imperial guard called excubitores, was often stationed at one point or other of the Palace. So vast was the interior of that pile of architecture, so intricate its structure, owing to the numerous additions which had been made to it by each succeeding Emperor, that for a boy bent, as Britannicus was, on occasionally eluding the intolerable watchfulness of his nominal slaves, it was not difficult to conceal his movements. Happily, too, he had one boyish friend whom he loved, and who loved him, with entire affection. It was Titus, the elder son of Vespasian. Even as a boy he gave promise of the fine moral qualities by which he was afterwards distinguished. His father was a soldier who had risen by merit to high command, and had even been Consul; but his grandfather was only a humble provincial, and, as his family was poor, he little dreamed that he too was destined to the purple of which his friend had been deprived. He was only a month or two older than Britannicus. They shared the same studies and the same games, and there was something contagious in his healthy vigour and imperturbable good humour. It was at least some alleviation to the sorrows of the younger boy that this manly and virtuous lad, with his short curly hair and athletic frame, was always ready to exert himself to brighten his loneliness and divert his thoughts. Painters might have called the features of Titus plebeian, but in his eyes and mouth there was an expression of honesty and sweetness which endeared him to the heart of the lonely prince, who admired him far more than any of the boys in the noblest families.

The political insignificance of the Flavian family had been one reason why Agrippina had chosen Titus as a companion for the son of Claudius, instead of some scion of the old aristocracy of Rome. It was well for Britannicus that his fellow-pupil came of a race purer and simpler than that of the youthful patricians.

The two boys had been educated together for some years; and Titus, when he became Emperor, still retained a fond affection for the companion of his youth, to whom he erected an equestrian statue. There was a story, known to very few, which might have endangered the life of Titus, had it been divulged. One day, when the two boys were learning their lessons together, Narcissus had brought in one of the foreign physiognomists who were known as metoposcopi, to look at them from behind a curtain. The man did not know who they were; he only knew that they were in some way connected with the Palace. After carefully studying their faces, he said that the elder of the two, Titus, should certainly become Emperor, but the younger as certainly should not. At that time Britannicus was heir to the throne. Narcissus was superstitious, and his heart misgave him; but he derived some comfort from the absurd improbability of a prophecy that a boy who had been born in so humble a house, and was only the descendant of a Cisalpine haymaker, should ever wear the purple of the Cæsars. He was too kind-hearted to let the anecdote be generally known, for even as a boy Titus was liked by every one, if he was not yet ‘the darling of the human race.’

One day, as Titus went across the viridarium, or chief green court of the Palace, he saw a little slave-boy struggling hard to repress his sobs. His kindly nature was touched by the sight. He had not been trained in the school of those haughty youths who thought it a degradation to speak to their slaves; his father, Vespasian, being himself of lowly origin, held, with Seneca, that slaves, after all, were men, and might become dear and faithful friends.

‘What is your name, and why do you weep, my little man?’ asked Titus.

‘They call me Epictetus,’ said the child; ‘and I am the slave of Epaphroditus, the Emperor’s secretary. I fell and hurt my leg very badly against the marble rim of the fountain. Don’t be angry with me. I will bear the pain.’[15]