Master and God

by Lindsey Davis

  Oh no. Calling her ‘darling’ was terrible. She had always hated the mocking insincerity of the way he used that word. But that was just the tip of her wrath, and Gaius could see how his lack of refinement was destroying their relationship.

  Flavia Lucilla jumped to her feet. Deep in her eyes burned a fierce message that a man with five wives recognised: a diatribe was about to fell him like a tree struck by lightning. ‘How convenient — I can be sixth in the parade?’

  The dog slid down off his lap and quailed against his chair. ‘That came out wrong,’ Gaius admitted hurriedly.

  ‘Really? You forget — I have seen how you treat wives. Who wants to be pushed out of the way while you grease your way off to some new refuge, your next secret “investment”, to confide in some new safe co-tenant, who may let you seduce her when she’s desperate but who will have no claim on you?’

  ‘I have had my faults-’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you would be different.’

  ‘The promise you made to all those neglected wives!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Two believe they still own you, even while you are pouring your heart out to me.’

  ‘ Because you are different-’

  ‘Because you take me for an idiot. You imagine I am just waiting to be a substitute, the next chained captive in your pathetic triumph.’ Lucilla shuddered. ‘This is my home. Don’t come to my home and behave like a dumb soldier. I have been a wife — to a good man, who for all his faults offered affection and respect.’ She knew how to make Vinius jealous.

  ‘I respect you.’

  ‘Don’t insult me. You are a disgrace, Vinius.’

  ‘So my wives tell me.’

  She stormed off. The dog, who knew how to make choices, slunk after her. Vinius sat on the balcony with the wreckage of his hopes, until there was no point sitting alone any longer. He left the apartment without speaking again to Lucilla.

  That was that then.

  He had ruined it.

  Everything was over.

  The Praetorian knew it would be self-destructive to spurn Lucilla’s good advice. She would have been surprised how much of it he followed. Step by step he reclaimed his life.

  He said goodbye to Onofria. He took her a generous amount of money and was surprised when she good-heartedly waved him and his cash away. He left the pay-off even so.

  He agreed with Caecilia that although he was retreating to the Camp, she could consider herself married to him until she received her legacy. He could be civilised about it. There was no rush; he would not be marrying anybody else. Being honest, it was a fair certainty he would never be married again. He wanted no more second best. There were financial and career penalties for unmarried men, worse for those who refused to be fathers; he would live with that.

  He consulted Themison of Miletus about his dysfunction. Themison paid great attention to the wound on his head, noting with interest how irascible interest in the skull depression made Gaius, who still considered it irrelevant. Then the doctor told him this happened even to gladiators, happened to those sex gods regularly. Give it six months. Be abstemious with drink. Then stick with his best girl, relax and keep in practice. Gaius amused himself wondering what his best girl would say, if asked to make herself available for therapeutic purposes.

  He returned to the Camp. He smartened up for the cornicularius. He approached his work in a mature and conscientious manner, as he always used to do. He was now assigned to investigating the public. He stuck with the task without self-loathing, though it made him twisted and cynical. That worked well as a state of mind for a Praetorian.

  He drank no wine for a month. He resumed only at his old measured pace, apart from occasional evenings with Scorpus, though they tended to be more interested in the aniseed and savoury delights of Chicken Frontinian, or for Scorpus, sausage in a ring, with double fish pickle. Once a month Gaius submitted to a night in a bar with the cornicularius, which they called ‘catching up on the paperwork’. Those rather stiff occasions cemented what became a gruff friendship. Now that Gaius had to deal with Domitian’s informers, with their sour reports of adultery, sedition and treason, he needed somebody who understood his work. His duties were grisly, verging on the unacceptable.

  He imposed new rules on Felix and Fortunatus.

  He took them to a bar, set up the most expensive flagon to show there were no hard feelings, then announced: ‘Every time I look up from picking the fluff out of my bellybutton, you two have married me off again. Some woman I never met before, who wants intimacy five times a night and thinks I’m made of money.’

  ‘You know we always look after you,’ said Felix, moved by this appreciation.

  ‘You are our little brother,’ Fortunatus added fondly.

  ‘I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but there are limits.’

  ‘What brought this on?’ marvelled Fortunatus.

  Gaius refused to answer.

  ‘Give him another drink,’ urged Felix.

  Gaius insisted: ‘It has to stop.’

  Felix paused to effect his famous fart, then commented portentously: ‘Titan’s turds! Baby Brother must have found love.’

  ‘Shit! Is it because Caecilia is a widow?’ Fortunatus wheedled. ‘Are someone else’s nippers too much to take on?’

  ‘Now you’ve done it!’ muttered Felix.

  Gaius stood up. His brothers assumed he was going off to order a new round of drinks, but he was leaving.

  ‘No,’ he announced. ‘It is because I am thirty-three years old, and I don’t need nursemaids. Next time I get shackled to some horrible mistake, I want to pick my own.’ Then he added, in a steady voice, considering: ‘But it won’t happen. Marriage is for procreating children and I cannot do it, lads. I’ve got Sailor’s Wilt, Soldier Boy’s Droop, Ex-Prisoner’s Prick. You just tell your next lovely widow that it wouldn’t be fair.’

  For once both his brothers were reduced to silence. After Gaius had marched from the tavern, the horror-struck Fortunatus did fart again, but it was involuntary, caused by shock, and far from his usual heroic standard.

  After a time Felix found his voice. ‘Be fair to the boy. It must have taken guts to tell us that.’

  They continued to drink, without speaking, for a long time.

  Gaius Vinius Clodianus lived at the Camp and got on with being what Flavia Lucilla had called him: a dumb soldier.

  PART 5

  Rome: AD 91-93

  Our Master and God

  24

  The quarrel between Gaius Vinius and Flavia Lucilla was hard and upsetting. It involved pointed, bitter silences aimed, from behind closed doors, across the corridor at Plum Street. They easily sustained the feud for a year.

  Both became adept at avoiding each other. Sharing the same apartment could have been impossible, especially as Gaius now made a point of being there to irritate Lucilla with his ownership. They mastered a fine art of leaving a dish carefully positioned, to mark kitchen territory; Gaius would elaborate this by rewashing a supposedly cleaned saucepan of Lucilla’s to show how scouring was done by experts. Doors would open silently but click closed again, avoiding a face-to-face meeting. The watchdog became a constant battleground over petting rights, though Terror was in heaven, rightly thinking he now had two doting owners. Gaius brought him horrendous marrow bones, deliberately leaving them in the corridor, so as soon as the dog lost interest Lucilla would kick them out of doors furiously, with their comet-trail of flies. Gaius returned them. ‘Here, Terror — nice boney!’

  Once, once only, Gaius came upon and ate two cold artichoke bottoms that were not his.

  This was a dangerous moment. Lucilla spent a wrathful night, mentally planning vile torrents of recrimination, but she overslept and he hastily bought a whole netful next morning before he had to face her. She would have to prepare and marinade the new chokes, which caused plenty of bile, but Gaius kept out of her way for a month.

  Once she did weaken. Coming home betw
een visiting clients, she heard a troubled shout. From the open doorway of the sitting room, she saw Gaius had dozed off on the couch. He was frowning, his jaw clenched, one hand forming a fist. As dreams distressed him, he let out fitful gasps. Aware of his deep need for sleep, Lucilla slipped among the furniture, to close the heavy wooden shutters, muffling light and noise. After she finished lunch, she looked in again. Now Gaius slept peacefully. The watchdog had shoved in beside him. Although Baby was not allowed up on cushions, he had mastered sneaking up onto the four-foot-wide couch one paw at a time; Gaius must have woken enough to allow it and massage the loose skin under the dog’s collar, where his hand remained. She left them together.

  In between were long periods when she and Gaius were in different places and so never had to meet. Lucilla was able to focus her antipathy on the distasteful work in which he was now involved, the results of which were well known at court and throughout society.

  Rome had never been a liberal environment, but its atmosphere had decidedly altered. One man could not single-handedly wreak this change. Domitian relied on people’s indifference, their compliance, their complaisance. He also needed his soldiers, his undercover inquisitors, his brutal enforcers. He needed the Guards.

  The Praetorians’ remit had always been threefold: imperial protection, suppression of public disturbances and discouraging plots. An emperor’s measures against plots could be as innocuous as Vespasian’s edict ordering food shops to sell only lentil and barley dishes, so boring that nobody would hang around talking politics. Or they could extend fear and betrayal like sinister tentacles into all areas of home and business life. That was Domitian’s way. Vinius Clodianus now had to work spreading the fear.

  Strictly speaking, the wider supervision of law and order, including intelligence collection, came under the Urban Cohorts, governed by their Prefect, Rutilius Gallicus. He had a reputation for restraint and fairness, although trying to reconcile such an attitude to Domitian’s punishing regime could well have helped his mental health deteriorate. The Urbans supervised the triumvirs, a board of three who organised the ceremonious burning of seditious books — or books that Domitian called seditious — a bonfire in the Forum that was now lit with depressing regularity. They ran the political espionage team who investigated treason and social crimes. They carried out interrogations, often using torture, even though that was recognised as unreliable because some suspects were too tough to give in, while others collapsed at the first hint of menace and would say anything they thought the arresting officer wanted to hear.

  As censor, chief magistrate and as Pontifex Maximus or chief priest, the Emperor himself judged many criminal proceedings. If Rome was a collective household, Domitian was its head. He presided over serious trials. Theoretically, he would never initiate charges himself, but when names were handed in by informers, the facts (or fantasies) had to be checked to gauge the likelihood of securing a conviction; where Domitian was the judge, his Praetorians liaised closely with the Urban Cohorts. Vinius Clodianus helped the Urbans evaluate cases and gave them ideas for following up evidence.

  He was startled by what he saw. As censor, Domitian’s actions were meticulously correct, yet some seemed crazy and unjust; he ordered that when a juryman was convicted of taking bribes, all his colleagues on that jury should be punished too. He expelled someone from the Senate because he had acted in pantomimes. An ex-centurion was proved to be a slave after many years living as a free citizen; he was returned to slavery with his original master. Charges that the Emperor hounded married women for adultery were coloured with tales that he had often seduced the women himself first — though at Plum Street Clodianus once overheard one of Lucilla’s clients maintaining that if true, the women would not submit quietly but would come out and accuse him openly. What was there to lose? And why should Domitian get away with it? (Lucilla realised Vinius was in the apartment and shut the woman up fast.)

  Sometimes accusations revived old injuries: Vespasian had once decided not to prosecute an opponent called Mettius Pompusianus, declaring that leniency would force him to be grateful and therefore loyal. Domitian first exiled Pompusianus to Corsica, then put him to death for having a map of the world painted on his bedroom walls, indicating supposed political ambitions. The man had also taken an interest in historical royalty. Studying bad rulers from the past was always seen as suspicious by bad rulers of the present; a philosopher died after an unwise speech criticised tyrants.

  Domitian had no compunction about making an attack personal. Aelius Lamia perished; his only crime was to have been Domitia Longina’s first husband. Although at one point Domitian had made him consul, Lamia was never reconciled; he took his loss hard and made no secret of it. Someone complimented him on his voice; he joked that he had given up sex and gone into training (as vocalists did). Then when Titus once urged him to remarry, Lamia scoffed, ‘Why — are you looking for a wife yourself?’ In the end, he was prosecuted on a trumped-up charge. He was supposed to have composed libellous verse.

  The written word was always dangerous. Suspicion was so invasive that on two occasions issues of intellectual freedom drove Gaius and Lucilla further apart. What Lucilla had heard about Vinius at work, in gossip from his family, convinced her that he had become an accomplice to Domitian’s repression.

  The first time they clashed was at the home of Felix and Paulina when Lucilla was invited for Marcia’s birthday. Vinius did not attend the meal, but turned up with a present for the young girl afterwards. It was raining; he was wearing his hooded military cloak and although he unfastened the front toggles, he kept it on so was clearly not staying. To avoid him, Lucilla stepped out on a sun terrace ‘for air’, but he followed her.

  It was ages since he had spoken to her directly. He came out munching cake in a casual way, but the confrontation was preplanned because he quickly broached the unusual subject of a poem by her friend Statius, about Rutilius Gallicus. This happened after the City Prefect regained his health and resumed his duties. How Vinius knew about the poem was never clear, for Statius had not yet published his collection; an informer must have gone to one of the poet’s popular readings, heard him recite a draft addressed to Rutilius, and made an insinuating report.

  ‘The piece began, “Rutilius has recovered, thank you, gods; you do exist!” Makes you vomit,’ declared Vinius, a frank critic.

  ‘Papinius Statius writes in what is called the mannerist style,’ Lucilla replied in a haughty tone, staring out at the rain which had come on suddenly earlier and still drenched the empty streets. A damp breeze chilled her arms; she huddled in her stole. ‘Much as I like him, I agree the heavy classical allusion can seem overdone.’

  ‘He must be taking the piss.’

  ‘He writes occasional poems to mark public events, or poems of friendship. Celebrating a marriage, bon voyage, a new bath house-’

  ‘Lament for a dead parrot!’ snorted Vinius. Lucilla was already dismayed, then he went into startling detail: ‘Listen: in this Rutilius effort, according to your crazy poet friend, the god Apollo and his medico son Aesculapius personally flew here and saved the Prefect with a mystical infusion of some herb called dittany from Crete. What rubbish. It’s an insult to the excellent Themison of Miletus, who I know used a very successful healing regime based on sympathy and rest. One passage described Rutilius sprawled and inert — it mentions overwork, lack of sleep, how he was frozen in inactivity — ’

  Alarmed, Lucilla interrupted, ‘Is this an official visit?’

  Vinius stared at the depressing weather.

  ‘Gaius Vinius, are you interrogating me?’

  ‘If it was official I would have the militia outside.’ Inside in fact, with you tied to a chair… ‘One question: I see nothing to be ashamed of in the man’s collapse. Rutilius seems open about it. Everyone knew he was unwell. But to avoid a crisis of confidence, it was officially decided not to give out exact details.’

  Lucilla finally understood. ‘You think I told Statius what ha
ppened?’

  ‘I am trying not to believe that.’

  ‘You’re scared you’ll get into trouble for having said too much to me!’

  Vinius glowered. ‘Think that if you must. So, Flavia Lucilla, did you pass on what I told you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Although bitterly resentful, Lucilla tried to diffuse trouble: ‘Rutilius writes; he attends the literary circle. During his recovery he talked freely about his symptoms. He told Statius himself.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Is that it? You are not much of an interrogator; what if I am lying?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Case closed then.’ Vinius shrugged. Refastening his cloak toggles, he appeared to be leaving. ‘Sorry. Mistrust festers, until even the innocent are seen as guilty. The worst is, it takes almost nothing to make you feel guilty.’

  ‘It must be hard to do your job,’ sneered Lucilla.

  ‘Better I do it, than somebody less scrupulous,’ said Gaius briefly, as he left her alone on the wet terrace.

  Perhaps he really believed that.

  She called after him from the doorway. ‘I thought you might mention artichokes!’

  All the family indoors were listening. Gaius gave her a pleading look that had been known to win over the sternest of aunts. ‘An accident. I just couldn’t resist. I had hoped my replacement met your schedule of reparations.’

  ‘Nobody buys me!’ Lucilla hooted.

  Pretty well everyone else in Rome was being bought. Vinius Clodianus was fielding accusations more often than he liked his friends and family to know. Having to keep secrets from your own circle was part of the insidious process. He tried only to take action when he thought action was justified, but sometimes he was given orders from above against his inclinations. If people were guilty, he supported arrests. But sometimes it went too far, he had to admit.

  Informing ran through society from highest to lowest level. At the top, where Clodianus was little involved, were members of Domitian’s own council, senators who had been informers under Nero or advisers to Vespasian; some now claimed to have given up, yet remained as shadowy presences behind the scenes. Domitian encouraged senators to accuse one another; he liked the divisiveness. A stigma attached to great men who indulged in prosecutions against their equals. If encouraged by the Emperor, that stigma disappeared, so a star orator might put himself at Domitian’s service almost on a salaried basis. To challenge such activities would question the legitimacy of Domitian’s regime. Few attempted it. Lower down society snuck weasels who would independently lay an information in the hope of being allowed to prosecute for profit, or who even sometimes named names anonymously. These professionals came from all levels, including very baseborn profiteers. Clodianus saw their work all too often.