Master and God

by Lindsey Davis

  Tapae. That was where Diurpaneus fell upon the army of Cornelius Fuscus in a well-planned ambush. From that time Diurpaneus would be known to his people as Decebalus, which meant a warrior ten times as great as others.

  The Dacians appeared out of nowhere. There was a flash off a helmet, perhaps more glints of sunlight on metal; the first signs seemed unreal, almost passed unnoticed in the distance — then the enemy were upon the Romans. Most warriors were on horseback, shrieking and brandishing fearsome weapons. Fuscus and his men scrambled into well-practised action. The Romans had no battle plan; there was barely time to form up to face the hordes of warriors descending on them. After the long silence from the enemy, some men looked exhilarated at this chance for action but Vinius saw his centurion deplored their confidence. Gracilis had been waiting for this; he anticipated disaster.

  A few frantic horn calls sounded, their meaning incomprehensible, then further down the line behind, sudden uproar announced that the fight had begun. Never having been in a pitched battle, Vinius was shocked by the chaos. They were fighting for hours, and for hours it was impossible to tell what was happening. He now understood why sometimes when a battle ended, exhausted participants were too confused even to know which side had won. At Tapae, eventually the outcome became bitterly clear. The Dacians with their long swords and sickles were carving up the Roman army, end to end. The Roman invasion force was being wiped out. They were all going to die, here in this godforsaken village, here on this bloody Dacian road.

  The butchery horrified Vinius. He found himself trampling over dead and wounded, discarded shields and weapons; sliding on blood and guts and brains; stabbing and slashing, sometimes to good purpose yet sometimes aimlessly, while blinded by a mist of sweat and blood. The relentless noise appalled him. Not only the endlessly clashing weapons, but the terrible squealing of horses, the hideous screaming of men. The conflict just went on and on. He had never known such weariness, nor such spirit-sapping misery.

  The Guards stuck solidly by their commander, knowing he would be a target. Diurpaneus habitually closed in on an enemy leader. The Praetorians therefore took the brunt of a deliberate Dacian onrush and suffered enormous casualties from the start. Heavily outnumbered, the remainder fought on even after they had seen Fuscus picked off; he was surrounded by intent warriors, dragged from his horse, and cut to pieces. With Fuscus killed, his men’s hopes for survival died too. The Praetorian battle standard had already disappeared, their trophy now a Dacian victory symbol. Screams and shouts intensified as the Dacians gloried in their success and the desperate Guards were systematically massacred.

  The centurion Gracilis was last glimpsed by his beneficarius taking out opponents to the last, still showing his exasperation at the sheer bloody stupidity of this ill-planned operation imposed on good soldiers by an impetuous leader. Decius Gracilis, who would obey orders even when they were suicidal, died in that field of gore. Vinius saw him go down, bucking in agony yet wielding his sword valiantly even as life left him. His own heart burst with grief as he himself went on fighting — because that was what they were there for and there was no escape now — until a Dacian came up on his blind side. His helmet barely withstood the mighty blow that finished him, adrenalin carried him forwards momentarily, but he felt his sight blur and his legs give way. Vinius was finished. He knew it as, bitterly struggling against the darkness, he dropped to his knees then fell headlong among the dead and dying, helplessly submerged in carnage.

  16

  Certain moments would never be the same again. A garden at dusk in late summer would always remind Lucilla of her tryst with Vinius, and now mid-mornings when street-life was going on outside the shutters would sometimes catch her out too, making her weep. That was the time when Paulina had come to tell her what had happened. Instead of her usual cheery appearance, carrying little Titus, with the two girls scampering ahead and squealing for their aunt, Paulina was alone and solemn. She and Lucilla sat down together with hot beakers of flavoured borage tea, and then Paulina broke the news.

  Reports of the tragic rout at Tapae had reached Rome. Felix and Fortunatus had gone to the Praetorian Camp, pleading for word of their younger brother. They learned that when Decebalus chased the remnants of Fuscus’ troops back through the mountains, so few soldiers scrambled back to the Danube that the cormorants on the riverbank scarcely bothered to lift off at their coming. None of the Praetorian contingent made it back. Their battle standard had been captured, which told its own story.

  The Guards at the Camp had been sympathetic, until the brothers’ persistence became a menace; then the Guards’ own dismay at the loss of colleagues made them rougher. They shouted at Felix and Fortunatus to give up. There was no point repeatedly beseeching answers. Gaps in the Praetorian cohorts were to be filled immediately; any Guard who had stayed in Moesia with Fuscus was presumed missing in action. Fuscus, the Prefect, was definitely dead. A great many good men had died with him. Decius Gracilis and his century had been wiped out. The beneficarius was lost with his centurion. Felix and Fortunatus must stop causing trouble and accept it. Gaius Vinius was dead.

  Dead. He was dead.

  ‘We all thought,’ said Paulina, with delicacy, ‘Gaius had a soft spot for you, Lucilla.’ Silence. ‘He never said anything?’

  ‘No.’

  Paulina was not easily deflected. ‘Did you know that he divorced his wife? Just before he went away… She was very surprised. We all were.’

  ‘I am too,’ replied Lucilla honestly.

  Not half as surprised as when the Praetorians supplied Felix and Fortunatus with their brother’s will. Gaius had made them his heirs and executors, not unexpectedly. He left them everything, with one surprising exception. A bequest ‘to Flavia Lucilla, well-deserving of me’ gave her all the contents of his rooms at Plum Street. ‘Well-deserving’ was a phrase used on tombstones for a spouse or lover, though presumably he intended simply to deter legal quibbles. Felix and Fortunatus added Gaius to their father’s memorial tablet near the Camp, but Lucilla was not invited to appear on it.

  Everyone found it convenient to make out that Lucilla’s odd inheritance was just a few sticks of furniture and old keepsakes.

  The furniture was better than her own, and Lucilla would take care of it for his sake. The keepsakes turned up when she unlocked the great chest in his bedroom. She made sure she was alone when she explored it.

  Inside were his birth certificate and proof of Roman citizenship; army papers; two phalerae, which were his medals for army service in Britain and for saving a priest’s life in the vigiles. A flat gilded box that she remembered him bringing contained the gold oak wreath he won in action when he was a young soldier. She visualised him carrying that box into the apartment, clamped under one arm as if nothing special; he never said what it was.

  Some items were everyday: a draughtsboard with two sets of glass counters, a toy ceramic chariot Gaius must have had in his childhood, favourite belts and a scabbard, the bronze multiple tool she remembered him buying, with its ingenious fold-up spoon, fork, cutting blade, toothpick, spatula and spike.

  There was an amulet on a very short string, such as an infant might wear; his daughter’s? Lucilla lifted out personal treasures carefully, guessing what each possession might have meant.

  Wrapped in a piece of soft cloth was a small collection of jewellery. She did ask his brothers about that; they were vague, but Paulina consulted an aunt who said the simple rings, silver bangle, gold chains and various earrings had belonged to Clodia, his mother. His father had called him after his mother, Lucilla learned. The formal documents and citations gave his full title. Gaius Vinius Clodianus: that had been his name.

  What Lucilla never told the others was that the chest he left her contained a large amount of money.

  The soldier’s savings took the form of aurei — each worth twenty-five denarii or a hundred sesterces — those big gold coins that people rarely used but hoarded. Perhaps it was true that when Domitian took t
he throne he had awarded soldiers a bonus of twenty thousand sesterces, the huge sum first given by the Emperor Claudius. Lucilla never actually counted, but the quantity took her breath away. Knowing this gift was intentional, yet hardly daring to touch it, she thought very carefully about how to use the cash. In the end when their rent fell due she paid Vinius’ regular share out of his money. That way, she could keep the apartment as he must have intended. Years were to pass while Lucilla continued to pay rent as if for Gaius.

  She used his second room as her evening refuge, altering it to suit her, but kept his bedroom just as he had left it. She even left an old cloak of his on a door peg, but she brought out the toy chariot and placed it on the stool beside the bed. Nobody else went in there. She cleaned, tidied, occasionally lay on his neat bed, thinking. She never felt able to wear most of the jewellery, apart from one set of earrings with pearl drops which she chose and wore in the Praetorian’s memory.

  In the months after the news came, she discovered unexpected things about him. First, in the apartment itself, she noticed a wall niche in the corridor. It must always have existed. Before he left, Vinius had placed there two small bronze statues, the ‘Lares and Penates’ who traditionally guarded the fortunes of a Roman home: he had left Lucilla with her own household gods. His gods too, perhaps. Had he taken them when he divorced Verania? The bronze had no patina; the little statues looked new.

  Lying on the ledge where flowers and offerings could be placed, he had left his front door key — One for you; one for me. No duplicates. Agreed?

  People continually talked about him. Paulina reminisced about his youth. ‘He was so good-looking before that happened with his eye. Lovely hair, and such long eyelashes — oh he was gorgeous! Very quiet as a lad, but he seemed happy. You want to talk to his aunties about him…’

  The old man who owned the main house called Lucilla one day. Cretticus senior, his face seamed, rather staring eyes; he spent his time in a long daybed in the peristyle garden, apparently snoozing, in a nonagenarian’s dream-state. He was all there if you spoke to him though. ‘Sound fellow, your Praetorian.’

  ‘Not mine!’

  ‘Decent manners. Wonderful patience. Knew a thing or too; he took a lot of interest in the world. He always had time for an old codger. I shall miss our talks… Let me know if you need anything, Flavia Lucilla. So long as I am still here.’

  Did he ask you to look out for me?

  He would have done, if he had thought of it. ‘That man was a hero, girl. Did you know he won the civic crown for saving a life in battle?’

  ‘I found it. It is a little crumpled, but very beautiful.’

  ‘Keep it safe for him.’

  You speak as if he is coming back.

  ‘He knew I had a weakness for hazelnut slices. He would often bring me one from the fine bakery on Ten Taverns Street. So thoughtful.’

  Whenever Lucilla passed the bakery now, she bought pastries for Cretticus and chatted to him. When the pumice-seller gave up, the old man told Melissus to give her a good price on the lease for the spare shop, which he knew she wanted. ‘Trust a pretty woman to wind a helpless old-timer around her sneaky little finger!’ complained the agent. But he too was growing older and lazier, so he went along with it. Thus Lucilla was able to open a neighbourhood manicure and hair business as she had always wanted. Two lively girls worked for her; they tended customers on the street or indoors, and lived in an upstairs mezzanine. One was her slave Glyke, now returned without the baker’s boy though with suspicious bruises and unfeasibly good intentions.

  After Alba, Lucilla had wondered if Vinius might have left her a farewell note at Plum Street, but there was nothing. Only his bequest now silently gave her comfort as she grieved; perhaps in some friendly way he had wanted that for her.

  She never regretted running away from him. She believed he was not for her. She felt he had always made that clear. She could never have resolved the conflict she perceived between how much she wanted him and its impossibility. So at Alba, when he left her alone briefly, she bolted from their pavilion, rushed to the residential quarters, gathered her things and fled down the hill to the Via Appia. She hitched a lift on a cart, right then in the clear air of dawn, before most people were stirring. She went not towards Rome, but down south to the Bay of Naples, where she stayed at another imperial villa until she could be certain Vinius had left Rome.

  Afterwards, sometimes she dared to remember being in his arms. How, after only clumsy couplings with others, she and this man had straightway come together as a perfect fit. How they moved together, in effortless synchronicity and with such deep pleasure. How when their exercise left them exhausted, she cried a little, so Vinius wiped her eye with his index finger, murmuring kindly, ‘No tears!’ before they both fell into profound sleep.

  How her troubled mind had drowned in peace, her body melting against his…

  He was dead. No point speculating. Cherish the past for what it was, an ideal, a signal that human happiness might be a possibility. Raise your standards. Make a decent life, Lucilla. Life is all there is. If it’s only once, it must be good… He had been right. If perfection only happened once, that was better than never. Now nothing for her would ever again entail complete despair. So thank you, Gaius Vinius Clodianus, son of Marcus, thank you for your good deed, a deed that brightened somebody’s dark world.

  Onwards then. Life had to be gone through. In the year of the news of the Battle of Tapae, sad as she was, Flavia Lucilla picked herself up. Determined to improve herself, she stopped dallying with awkward lovers and ignored the fast set. She attached herself to a more cultured circle, keen to educate her mind. She dressed smartly but with taste. She was chaste, or at least careful, even though nobody knew it. She listened, learned to judge, tolerated many fools, made a few good friends, and eventually she suggested to a man she knew that they should be married.

  He was a teacher. What could be better than that?

  How she came to this marriage eventually was through mutual friends. By that time, Lucilla knew a lot of people. Many were at Alba, to which she returned whenever the imperial ladies went. There in particular she now explored society with better discrimination. At one point, as a tribute to Vinius, she tried to appreciate music; this was not a success, partly because it made her miserable on his behalf but also because she tended to drift off into her own thoughts.

  For a brief period she dallied among the building project teams. Hearing one of the great Rabirius’ drawing assistants one day discussing business with a site supervisor, she had been struck by the power of professional men, relaxed in their expertise. It had an almost erotic effect, although subsequently when an architect tried to take up with her, Lucilla found him deceitful and indecisive, which soon cured her.

  Eventually she alighted instead on the verge of Domitian’s literary circle.

  Joining a writers’ group is a mistake even for professional writers — especially for them, if they have any self-respect. Lucilla was too inexperienced, so far, to take that attitude.

  The girl would learn.

  Although life on the frontiers was tricky, back in Rome it was a time of civic certainty. Domitian had returned from his initial success in Moesia to hold a Dacian Triumph (spurious, in the light of the coming defeat at Tapae) and to appoint himself Censor. Unlike his predecessors in that role, he held the post alone and was to be censor for life. This would involve him enforcing much moral legislation, particularly the Augustan divorce laws. He enjoyed regulating conduct. The main point was that the censor reviewed the lists and supervised the political orders; this gave Domitian full control of the Senate.

  In case anybody ever missed his significance, he took to appearing at all public occasions, including Senate meetings, in full triumphal uniform. That meant parading with a laurel wreath on his best toupee, a gold and ivory sceptre, and elaborate white robes that signified the honorand was representing Jupiter. The one-day ceremonial regalia for a general had been extended
to permanently suggest divinity.

  Domitian felt himself to be under Jupiter’s personal protection, but his foremost devotion was to the goddess Minerva. Minerva was sometimes equated with the Greek Athene, though she had very ancient roots in Etruscan Italy. Helmeted and depicted carrying a tall spear, she was a goddess of war and warriors, but her patronage extended to significant peacetime activities: wisdom in general, medicine, commerce, crafts, music and poetry. At Domitian’s court this was particularly good news for poets, who cluttered up audience rooms, all hoping a well-disposed attendant would place an elegy in the Emperor’s bedroom, or a well-timed public recital would have them reading aloud just as he dropped by. Domitian had apparently stopped writing himself, but loved the tyranny of patronage.

  Lucilla first engaged with this circle originally through Claudia, a pleasant woman married to the poet Statius; she had a daughter by a previous marriage to a different poet, a young girl who was extremely musical and whom Claudia closely chaperoned. Lucilla met mother and daughter at a recital, then heard a reading by Statius who had a famously good voice. He, like his father before him, had been a prizewinner in the literary category at the Naples Games, which were now defunct after the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Coming to Alba, he hoped to become known for his magnum opus, an epic in twelve books called the Thebaid. He was still polishing this piece of work, though he regularly read excerpts. It told the story of the Seven Against Thebes, a Greek power struggle which involved episodes of extreme violence; that was not to Lucilla’s taste, especially in the period after Vinius died. However, the writer was a man much-liked, and with good reason, she thought; she learned simply to wonder quietly at the subjects authors choose.

  An overheard discussion of the Thebaid one day made her realise her education’s deficiencies. Statius was not present, which was as well because he was so sensitive about reception of his work it was painful to watch. The discussion was about whether his poem, which might reflect on Domitian’s court, was either slathered with the grossest flattery or instead was deeply subversive and critical of the Emperor’s authoritarianism and the violence which underlay society. The concept that words could be so ambiguous was new to Lucilla. She was also straining to define phrases like ‘dactylic hexameters’, and to grasp whether she ought to regard these as thudding poetic metre or storytelling elegance.