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INT. IMPERIAL PALACE - THE EMPEROR'S TRICLINIUM - NIGHT
Oil lamps gutter. CLAUDIUS, 63, emperor of Rome, gray as ash, reclines at a table set for two. By the door, the taster's stool sits empty.
AGRIPPINA, 39, enters carrying the bronze pitcher herself. Serene. She pours two cups. Her hands do not shake.
CLAUDIUS
The boy. Where is he?
AGRIPPINA
Asleep. I sent him.
She sets the nearer cup before him and turns the handle toward his hand. A courtesy. He studies the cup, not her.
AGRIPPINA (CONT'D)
He is not ready to be emperor.
A flicker beneath the serenity. She knows what the boy is.
CLAUDIUS
No. He is not.
The words sit between them.
CLAUDIUS (CONT'D)
But the Senate confirms him in the morning, and it must. Rome will forgive a young emperor. It does not forgive an empty throne.
AGRIPPINA
He is sixteen.
CLAUDIUS
And I was fifty when they pulled me from behind the curtain and called me a god. Age is not the first thing the crowd eats.
Agrippina considers his words. Her eyes go to the cup.
AGRIPPINA
Drink your wine. Rest. Tomorrow belongs to Rome.
CLAUDIUS
(turning the cup slowly)
They will say I died of age. Age, and the August air.
He lifts the cup and holds it between them. A toast, or an accusation.
CLAUDIUS (CONT'D)
To the boy. May he learn what I learned too late.
AGRIPPINA
And what is that?
CLAUDIUS
Watch the ones who pour.
He drinks. All of it. He sets the cup down without a sound. Agrippina watches him, her hands perfectly still.
CLAUDIUS (CONT'D)
Sit with me awhile. It will not be long.
She sits. After a moment, she takes his hand. The lamps gutter lower.
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