Ah yes, m'lad, don't buy the rot behind the Thousand-Shields-of-The-West. That yarn's damp floss, har har.
The ha'drake hagiographies the churn out in The City brush in old Titus Mede I a Barbarian Warrior-King of old. Ho ho, what tosh. The moth-logs, sealed now though (little wonder), don't lie: Vespasian Mede (with an accent on the second e) was an old Merchant-Baron, with major shares in Vanech and a Senior Councilorship. He had sons, too. The oldest was a boy was called Titus, and he went to all the finest lyceums and academies.
He also got his damn body deep in with a coven of Tumult-talkers in the Valus uplands. Devotees of the Hell-Prince Boethia.
It suited his ambitions, and the price, he felt, was fair.
Take up the Gold Brand of the foul spirit and run it through his papa's belly.
Then when he had succeded to daddy's place at the Great Table, it was ever so simple to blame the devil deed on his enemies in the Optimate-faction of The Council. That turned a religious fervor in the plebs, and when the commons go, so goes the country. Riots cut through the streets and Chancellor Catafalquo struggled to keep order, giving Mede ample time to smuggle foreign 'Adventurers' into the Center. Then in a fortnight, when his foes were desperate for relief, Mede offered terms: shuffle on out, or the mercenaries surrounding the chamber will shuffle you loose this mortal coil.
One wonders why the bugger wouldn't claim the Septim cognomena. He had all the right venom for it.