Master and God

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘Snicketing. Absolutely no idea, darling. Some gadget that men with hobbies use for hours in their den, making awful Saturnalia presents for their rich great-uncles.’

  After washing his hands at the tap, Gaius emptied two kinds of olives into bowls, placed a segmented loaf on a comport, ripped chicory and drizzled it with olive oil from Lucilla’s own long jar, pulling down dried herbs from a high hook. Lucilla had never seen him prepare food before, but she knew soldiers could cook. Everything was done fast and extremely neatly. ‘Being a man, I always buy too much when I’m shopping. All my wives have commented-’

  Lucilla cut across the talk of wives. ‘How come the timely arrival today?’

  She saw Gaius check. ‘Not sleeping. Dacia. Nightmares and flashbacks. It’s a known phenomenon. The Camp is noisy, so I thought I might manage better here.’ Lucilla started to speak, but he stopped her. ‘Don’t worry about me! What can we drink?’

  ‘Grape juice.’ She reached for cups from the shelf.

  Gaius had a fresh mullet to fry; he was kindling the cooking fire, ready to heat oil in his square skillet. He had to use a flint to strike a spark, always a laborious process. Lucilla watched from the doorway; feeling herself sink back into gloom. He noticed she was so downcast: ‘Bear up. Could have been a disaster, but wasn’t.’

  ‘While you were out, I thought a lot about my life,’ Lucilla admitted, hugging a stole closer around her.

  Gaius gave her a friendly poke with a spatula. ‘I don’t want to hear any grim stories.’ He filled a beaker, making the juice go further with water, and plonked it in front of her. ‘If you’re intending to snivel, let me do the talking.’

  He poured for himself, with a larger proportion of juice. Lucilla reached for the flagon and levelled hers. Gaius tutted teasingly. The mood was light, a hint of how things could have been between them.

  Lucilla studied him as he continued to work on the fire and the fish, while indeed talking. In profile, with the undamaged side of his face towards her, his original good looks were stunning. He spoke steadily and quietly, as if distracting a badly upset child with a story. He described his new work under the cornicularius. ‘It’s a big department, many clerks and orderlies. Registrars to maintain documents; copy scribes; accountants and debt collectors. I am curator for the fallen. When Guards have died in service, I secure their property and sort out their wills; sometimes I have to trace their families. I try to see to things properly; do a bit of digging to find out what the man was like. You have to be sensitive.’

  ‘You like it. You are good at it. Was it a promotion?’

  Lucilla thought Gaius looked oddly shy. ‘Yes. Well, yes, it was.’

  ‘Recognition for Dacia?’

  ‘I’m no hero.’

  ‘You were to me today. And don’t forget, I know how brave you are: you left me your golden oakleaves, your civic crown.’

  ‘Oh that old thing. I hope you chucked it out. Come and have your food.’

  They had just finished eating when knocking came at the door. Lucilla froze, flinching with fear again.

  ‘Sit tight.’ Gaius went. She heard men’s voices, clearly nothing untoward. Goodnights were called.

  It was late. The apartment interior had grown dark. Gaius lit oil lamps before coming back. ‘Delivery.’

  ‘What?’ Lucilla’s face clouded with suspicion.

  ‘I thought you could do with a dear little heart-melting puppy. Handily, my brother had one. I bet you never owned a pet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I had lots, naturally.’ He was talking to calm her again. ‘Motherless boy, two big brothers, doting female relatives; naturally I had pups, kittens, doves, goslings, a tame rat — my grandma would watch until I lost interest, then a sad demise would be arranged. Felix gave me a crocodile hatchling once. I didn’t take to the snapper at all. One of my aunts helped me carry him to the other side of Rome and we slipped him down a drain. He’s probably still somewhere in the sewers, eighty feet long and looking for revenge. I don’t hang about in a public latrine even now; just in case he pops up through the seat.’

  His portrait of a happy family life that she had never had disturbed Lucilla more than Gaius realised. ‘Stop whiffling. You got me a dog?’

  ‘His name is Terror.’ Gaius acting blase failed to convince. ‘He is a guard dog. His father was a brutally expensive hunting hound from Britain, terrific, beautiful animal, ran like the west wind, breathtaking pedigree — ’

  ‘His mother?’ Lucilla asked astutely.

  ‘We suspect,’ Gaius admitted, ‘his father bollocksed an old fur muff. That was the only reason Fortunatus could afford him, because admittedly Terror is a bit of a mixed pickle. My brother suggests don’t make any sudden movements.’

  ‘That scares me.’

  ‘ You have to feed him. So he will be devoted and will protect you.’

  ‘What does he eat?’

  ‘Raw bloody meat.’ Lucilla’s face was a picture. Gaius pressed on. ‘And really big marrow bones, smelly ones are his favourite. Never, ever try to take one off him, not even if you gave it to him. Ready to meet him?’

  ‘I don’t want him.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  Terror was medium-large, with chunky shoulders, little more than a puppy, still lanky-legged. A wide leather collar hung heavy on his neck, full of metal studs. He had a dribbly snout, long tangled fur, pointed ears and no visible confidence. Fortunatus had washed him, so now he smelled damp. He was sitting up on his own rush mat just inside the front door, looking sorry for himself.

  ‘He has been a night watchdog, guarding tools and materials on a construction site. Fortunatus has to get rid of him. Terror can’t bear to be left by himself, so he barks and whines all night and the neighbours complain. He should be fine with you for company.’

  ‘I do not want him.’

  ‘We covered that. He is protection. I paid for him and he’s no use to Fortunatus; I can’t take him back. You must call him “Terror” out of doors. Let people hear it. Let them feel scared.’

  ‘Does that mean — ’ Lucilla nervously patted her unwelcome pet, who shrank away from her — ‘he has some other name?’

  Gaius looked coy. ‘I believe that in the privacy of a home environment, this dog likes to be called “Baby”.’

  Baby was sitting on his tail, but managed to wag it when he heard his private name.

  The dog lay down and went to sleep. Gaius began to fuss around providing the animal with a bowl of water, then generally clearing up. He said it was late; he told Lucilla she should get some rest too. ‘You’re safe. I’m here. Leave your door open so you can call if you are worried.’ Lucilla was not moving. ‘Go to bed, woman.’

  ‘Will you come too?’

  ‘Best not.’

  She had made a horrible mistake. Lucilla had acknowledged her desire honestly, but now hot shame rushed over her. Vinius answered at once, as if he had been dreading her request. He was a picture of a man who had taken a decision to distance himself from a woman whose interest in him was becoming tiresome.

  He stood well away from her, arms folded defensively. ‘Look. I just spent all afternoon pointing out morality laws to your mother’s despicable lover. So, beautiful creature, although of course I want to rip your clothes off and throw you over the cooking bench — if I did it, I would be the same as him.’

  Lucilla remained still.

  ‘You are very sweet…’ Gaius at last seemed awkward. ‘I am honoured to be asked — and heartbroken that you look so disappointed.’

  Gods, I sound pompous.

  You must be very proud of that.

  Head high but stricken, Lucilla spun off to her room.

  She still half supposed he would weaken and come to her. Stoically, he did not do so. She had closed her door. Even so, she remained so alive to his movements she heard him pottering for some time — a long time, in fact — he chinked bowls, washed his face, checked door locks; he blew out lamps; she heard
him speak to Terror. She reckoned he left his own bedroom door open, but she also knew he then lay chastely in the darkness alone.

  All night neither of them slept much. Stentorian snores filled the apartment, but it was the watchdog.

  Dawn came. Creeping out to use the facilities and run herself a cup of water, Lucilla had thought the Praetorian was gone already. But he must have been waiting until she moved about.

  He was by the front door. ‘I’m off to the Camp.’ He paused. ‘Friends?’

  ‘Of course.’ That was a lie. She had humiliated herself so much she would never be in the same room again if she could help it.

  He came up to her. Placed his hands upon her shoulders. Dropped a light farewell kiss onto her forehead, the way people did in families. Fatherly. Brotherly. Unbearably.

  From the look in his eye, he then changed his mind and was about to kiss her in a different way. Lucilla was about to let him.

  The dog went mad. His bark, as promised, was scarily loud. The moment he saw two people even mildly embracing, he jumped up in frenzied jealousy and put a stop to it.

  ‘Bad boy!’ Gaius was appalled, mostly at the dog suggesting he had devious motives. Terror wagged his tail, simply entranced to be spoken to.

  ‘Good doggie,’ murmured Lucilla. ‘Good Baby!’

  Gaius left for the Camp.

  Flavia Lucilla curled up back in her bed and thought about men’s fallibility.

  She was profoundly aware of the legal position regarding adultery. As a hairdresser for ten years, her clients had often lamented aspects of the legislation which was, to put it mildly, one-sided.

  A wife whose husband cheated on her could not prosecute him; she might divorce him and return to her father, but otherwise she had to endure the situation.

  Women’s adultery was a crime, however. A man whose wife cheated on him not only could take legal action, he had to. There was a special court for sexual offences; it was always busy.

  A betrayed husband must immediately divorce his wife. If he tolerated an affair he was guilty of encouragement and, as Scorpus had told Orgilius, he could be accused of pimping. If a husband delayed, after sixty days anyone could lay charges against the lover or the adulterous wife, as a public duty.

  The law aimed to protect families from illegitimate children; hence the bias against loose women. Penalties were severe. An adulterous wife lost half her dowry and a third of her other property. A convicted woman could not remarry a free citizen. Her lover lost half his property and suffered public infamy, which meant he lost his rights to give evidence in court and to make or inherit from wills. Both the guilty wife and her lover would be exiled — though to separate islands. Nice touch! thought Lucilla grimly.

  She buried her head under her pillow and thought about the added wrinkle that she knew applied to Vinius. A soldier who committed adultery with another man’s wife faced dishonourable discharge. All over the Empire soldiers were sleeping around with enthusiasm, but the law was there, if anyone ever made an accusation. A betrayed husband might. So, when Gaius Vinius made love to Lucilla at Alba even though he was married, it was tough on his wife Verania, yet legal. If he slept with Lucilla now she was married, it was a crime. Vinius could lose his position, its accrued financial rights, his good name, his legal standing, his ability to receive bequests, his capacity to remarry and, therefore, his right ever to have any legitimate children.

  This, Lucilla bitterly decided, accounted for the man’s swift rejection of her gauche invitation.

  She tried to forget what had happened, yet she went over the incident obsessively.

  Vinius had no need of her. For sex he could freely associate with any prostitute, waitress, actress, gladiatrix or slave. If he wanted a regular arrangement, he could remarry.

  Neither of them had mentioned Alba. Lucilla never supposed Vinius regretted that. Yet for him, it was a once-only. An opportunity to grasp, but a relationship to shun. He might still speak of Lucilla as attractive and beddable, but men always defined women in those terms. A man with a strong will, who guarded his position and was particularly careful about his money, would not repeat the experience, however powerfully he gave himself up to it at the time.

  As he had done. Lucilla knew that. Gaius had been completely overcome, just as she was. If she had stayed in his arms the next morning, she could have asked him for anything.

  But Alba would remain just a memory, and not solely because it happened five years ago. He could tick her off. A conquest. Wonderful, but done with. To sleep with Lucilla again was now far too risky.

  Only one aspect puzzled her: his loyalty whenever she was in trouble, together with the effort he was prepared to expend on rescuing her. Of course he had saved her from Orgilius. As soon as he unlocked the front door, such a decent man was bound to. Then there was no obligation to involve himself; he could have, should have, passed the culprit to her husband for punishment. He need not have made Lucilla dinner; calmed her with his quiet conversation; left his door open because she was terrified; provided a watchdog, at his own cost.

  Sometimes he seemed so affectionate. They had an odd friendship, and the only way Lucilla could make sense of it was to think Vinius was drawn to her, but that he did not want to be.

  She had to avoid him. She considered giving up their shared apartment, but because of her lease on the ground floor shop, where Glyke and Calliste did so well now, a move would be too complicated; it was not worth doing just to escape her embarrassment.

  The awkward incident, combined with unwelcome memories of her early years that Orgilius had brought back, made Lucilla reassess her current life. Men and their deficiencies had put her in a hard mood. She needed none of them. She would be better on her own, which she could tackle now with more confidence than when she was younger.

  This, then, was when Flavia Lucilla took her decision to leave her husband.

  21

  Lucilla went to tell Nemurus face to face.

  Various scenarios occupied her head before she tackled him. Mainly she feared an argument, imagining that Nemurus would show how vicious he could be when thwarted. She wondered if he might even hit her.

  It was quite unlike that. Nemurus behaved as if expecting her to leave him. Lucilla had forgotten he was a philosopher. Normally she gave it little thought but she knew that every day he practised accepting whatever fate dumped upon him. To endure her departure without anguish was, for him, an exercise in making himself at one with Nature. For a stoic, a useful test in leading a good life.

  ‘I spoke to your father just now, Nemurus; he is sending someone with a handcart and I shall return all the books you lent me. I do thank you for everything you taught me. I am grateful that you married me. But marriage requires the willingness of both parties to live together; I am afraid I no longer wish to do so.’

  ‘What caused this?’ The slight peevishness was regrettable in a stoic.

  Lucilla described Orgilius’ attack. To explain her escape she said only that ‘someone conveniently arrived’. Nemurus looked suspicious, though did not query this. ‘I spoke to you of my fears, Nemurus, but you brushed my pleas aside. The most terrible thing was that you actually told that man where to find me.’

  Pity the poor woman who had to give a notice of divorce to the man who had taught her literary criticism. He was bound to be thinking about vocabulary, style, tone, imagery, arrangement and presentation of material…

  But all Nemurus said was, ‘Yes. That was unforgivable.’

  Then he surprised her, surprised himself perhaps. He spoke with a warmth he had never shown before of his regard for Lucilla; he declared he would miss their companionship.

  It was too late. Lucilla knew that if there had been children she would have struggled on with this marriage, but as things were she saw no point. ‘Try again,’ she urged him. ‘Find someone rich, so you have no worries to distract you from your work.’

  Finally Nemurus did snap: ‘While you pursue your affair with that Praetoria
n!’

  Lucilla flinched. ‘I have known Vinius for a long time, but there is no affair.’

  ‘Does he know that, I wonder?’ mused Nemurus theatrically.

  Lucilla walked out, with no more conversation. She and Nemurus had been together just over two years, though never had a home of their own. The household gods they honoured belonged to his parents. There was neither dowry nor property to redistribute. She had no father to return to, but she had her apartment and furniture; Nemurus never made any claim on those. There she would attend to her customers and live her life quietly.

  She told nobody she was divorced. It was no one else’s business.

  It was a wild time to have upheaval in her life. A menacing atmosphere depressed Rome, with good events only making dark ones more terrible by contrast.

  Domitian was pleasing the people. He had given them a congiarium, the personal gift from an emperor to his people, traditionally wine or oil in a special vessel, but now more conveniently a cash payment. He held numerous games in addition to other festivals in the traditional calendar, all adding to Rome’s carnival atmosphere. He became famous for innovation, allowing foot races for young women and freak events featuring female gladiators and dwarves; he lavished money on spectacles, with regular mock-battles between infantry or cavalry, plus naval fights in flooded arenas. He had added two new chariot teams, the Purple and Gold, in addition to the traditional Red, White, Green and Blue. He created a new Stadium and Odeum in the Campus for athletics and music. People were less than happy when he forced them to remain seated during a sudden violent thunderstorm, allegedly causing some to catch a fatal chill, but they forgave him when he feasted them with an all-night banquet for every Circus spectator, served up to them in their seats.

  If the people loved him, the Senate did not. Domitian made no attempt to disguise his antipathy. He strictly controlled admission to the upper and middle ranks. Relegation was the least worry. Banishment and execution were a constant threat. It was said that the Emperor encouraged those who were under a cloud to commit suicide, to spare himself the opprobrium of murdering them; there may even have been some who killed themselves out of misplaced anxiety.