The Furies of Rome Read Online Free PDF

thinking back to what Myrddin, the immortal druid of Britannia, had said to him when he had tried to kill him. ‘A man can always accept death voluntarily.’
    ‘A man can also push too hard for the fulfilment of a prophecy. By trying to make it so he can alter the timeframe so that the various factors that are needed to bring it about are no longer in conjunction and so therefore the whole thing can never be. I made all the witnesses swear that oath for two reasons: firstly so that it would never reach the ears of those who would jealously guard their position and, secondly, to prevent you from knowing the details in order that you would always follow your instincts rather than a course that you thought had been fabricated for you; that way would have ended in failure and death.’ Vespasia opened her eyes, the strain of her many words showing in them and telling also in the shallowness of her breathing. ‘What you may suspect will come to pass may indeed be so, Vespasian; but it’s Sabinus who holds the key as to how and when. And to prevent you from acting precipitously he will guard that knowledge until such time that he deems you ready to receive it, using the oath that your father made you swear to each other. You are bound together now, my sons; now that I am gone, only between the two of you will you have the power to make this family one of the great families of Rome.’
    Vespasia’s eyes ranged slowly from one son to the other and, as the siblings met her gaze, they both bowed their heads in acknowledgement of her wishes; whilst they did so they felt her grip on their hands strengthen a fraction and then release. When they raised their heads again, they met with the blank eyes of the corpse that had been their mother.
    ‘I’ll not! I’ll not go! She was never nice to me.’ Domitian faced his parents, standing in the tablinum, looking up at them, defiant, his fists clenched, ready to strike. Phyllis, his nursemaid, stood behind him with a hand on each of his shoulders.
    ‘You mean she tried to discipline you,’ Vespasian said, attempting to keep his voice level in the face of such insubordination from his youngest son, ‘which is exactly what I will do if you refuse to go and pay your respects to the body of your grandmother.’
    ‘You’re going to thrash me anyway for what I did this afternoon, so why should I?’
    ‘I’ll thrash you twice as hard and for twice as long if you don’t.’
    The child responded to this threat in an age-old fashion: he stuck out his tongue and then tried to wriggle free of his nursemaid’s clutches. Phyllis, although no more than twenty, was wise to the tricks of young boys and had the child by the hair before he had gone two paces.
    ‘Bring him here,’ Vespasian said, unbuckling the belt about his waist.
    Phyllis, sturdy and with an attitude that would brook no nonsense from children, hauled the writhing Domitian over to his father who pointed at a table. ‘On that.’
    Grappling with the twisting child, Phyllis managed to manoeuvre him so that he lay on his belly on the table; she had him pinned down by the shoulders, in what was almost a wrestling move, but his legs were free to kick. But Vespasian did not care, such was his anger with his son; it was an anger that was not novel, due to Domitian’s constant wilfulness. He wrapped the buckle end of the belt about his right wrist, grasped the other end in his hand, doubling it over, and caught the flaying legs with his other hand, holding them down. With the combined grief of mourning a mother and the outrage at his child for refusing to show due respect to her in death, he thrashed Domitian until the boy’s howls brought concern to Flavia’s eyes and he restrained himself.
    Panting, Vespasian lowered the belt. There was a giggle from behind him and he turned around to see his daughter, Domitilla, peering through the curtains that separated the room from the atrium.
    ‘Thank you, Father,’ Domitilla said,