Scribonianus, the poor deluded fool, must have convinced himself he would be sent into exile and somehow escape death. As soon as the magistrate read out the sentence he began mewing in a disturbing, childlike way that reminded Claudius of a dog whimpering in its sleep. Did the man have no dignity?

The mob were out in force behind the ropes that cordoned off the stake; the arena might provide more in the way of excitement, but it was not every day they had the opportunity to watch a citizen of consular rank burn. No clean strike with an axe for Scribonianus. A traitor's death for a traitor.

The former governor began pleading as soon as he saw the raw balk of timber with its chains and the pile of pitch-soaked brushwood at its base. "Caesar" the high-pitched cry echoed across the execution ground. "Not this, I beg you. I throw myself upon your mercy. Remember my long service to the Empire, it must have some value. Caesar, please"

The shouts were greeted with laughter and from the crowd a dozen voices mimicked the condemned man, but Claudius kept his face cold. He closed his ears to Scribonianus's increasingly urgent cries and watched. Watched as he was chained to the post and the brushwood piled high around his feet. Watched as the torch was put to the wood and the pitch-fuelled flames exploded in an instant. Watched as the fiery breath first consumed Scribonianus's clothing, then his flesh. Watched as his adversary's face melted from his skull like candlewax.

So die the enemies of Rome.