Master and God

by Lindsey Davis

  Domitian’s friends had lost any management of him. Julia’s softening influence was gone, and Domitia seemed powerless. Perhaps, in what had become an empty marriage, she lost interest in trying. With the gradual deterioration of the Emperor’s mind came crueller and more abrupt actions. A man was overheard saying that a Thracian gladiator might beat his Gallic opponent but was no match for the patron of the Games — Domitian; the speaker was dragged from his seat and immediately thrown into the arena to be torn apart by dogs.

  Such was the Emperor’s reputation that people actually shook with terror in his presence. As despots do, he noticed with grim amusement. Everything was summed up in his known wish to be addressed as dominus et deus, Master and God. ‘Master’ was commonplace; it would ruffle no plumage, because it was a normal mark of respect used by everyone from soldiers to schoolchildren. But to call any living person a god aroused revulsion. Even deified Roman emperors were a recent phenomenon; they had to be awarded transubstantiation by their successor or the Senate, and they definitely had to die first. Domitian’s own father had made a joke about that, as Vespasian realised he had a fatal illness.

  Domitian publicly denied any formal claim to Master and God, yet he accepted the title, seemed to want it — and openly used it in his own correspondence. Sycophants took the hint.

  As in all courts full of terror, shameless fawning occurred. In the glistening halls on the Palatine and the remote citadel of Alba, Domitian basked in flattery. People bowed; visitors flung themselves into inappropriate acts of obeisance; there was vile foot-kissing. The careful myth promulgated by the Emperor Augustus, that Rome’s leader should be a normal man living modestly, merely the ‘first among equals’, had always been a sham; it was now completely cast away.

  There would never be an organised intellectual opposition. Nonetheless, even though life under a despot grew nerve-racking some still dared to react against it.

  First, the Younger Pliny and Herrenius Senecio, himself a Spaniard, joined forces to prosecute Baebius Massa, the governor of Hispania Baetica, for maladministration. It was all the braver because Baebius was a friend of Domitian’s. They won their case. Baebius had to surrender his property to pay off the provincials he had swindled, but with Domitian behind him he survived politically. He retaliated and prosecuted Senecio for treason. The charge failed, but then Mettius Carus, the man who had prosecuted the Vestal Cornelia, took it up in his usual abrasive style.

  This was the final stage of a long confrontation with a group of entrenched republicans with stoic beliefs that went right back to the reign of Nero. It led to deaths, and to suspicion of philosophers. It even led to the unlikely spectacle of Nemurus, the closet practitioner of stoic values, visiting his ex-wife to beg for information, hoping she could squeeze her tame Praetorian.

  The bony academic managed to turn up at Plum Street not only when Lucilla was out, attending to a customer at the woman’s home, but Vinius was in. For Nemurus this was the worst possible scenario. It forced the two men into an awkward tryst, seated on the balcony in the late afternoon with a bowl of fried stuffed dates and cups of watered wine, while they awaited Lucilla’s return. Nemurus writhed. Vinius (handing snacks po-faced) thought it was very funny.

  ‘I hope you like these. I made them myself.’ He guessed Nemurus was helpless in a kitchen. The man looked horrified. ‘I don’t expect Lucilla to do everything at home. She works so hard on her own account. She deserves spoiling.’

  After a frozen silence, Nemurus caught on. ‘Are you two…?’

  ‘Oh! Sorry. Yes, we are.’

  Nemurus became desperate to leave but was too gauche to extract himself.

  Flavia Lucilla arrived shortly. Vinius left the balcony, deliberately pulling a door closed. Nemurus heard him greet Lucilla in a low voice, ‘Your ex is here.’ A silence followed. Nemurus imagined them canoodling. A petrifying dog then pushed open the folding door and growled at him.

  Vinius came back, bringing a third chair which he placed close to his own. ‘Put him down, Terror!.. She’s coming.’

  Nemurus was now trapped on this small balcony, in the kind of evening the couple must enjoy regularly, either alone or with friends or family. Muted sunshine. Wine and titbits. Pleasant conversation. Laughter. Things that made him nervous.

  The awful dog clambered on top of the Praetorian when he resumed his seat. He played with the beast, airily showing off how easy and commanding he was with it.

  Lucilla appeared. At once she dived into the stuffed dates, eating with one hand while with the other she removed her sandals and rubbed her feet. Always a wearer of silly shoes, the straps had dug into her, not badly but enough. With her mouth full, she said nothing to Nemurus, just raised an eyebrow questioning his visit. The dog left the Praetorian and lay down by her chair. Using the creature as a footstool, Lucilla buried her bare feet in its horrid fur, wriggling her toes. There could be no doubt, this dreadful pet was beloved of both of them.

  ‘Oh — would you two like to be left alone?’ Vinius asked suddenly, as if he had only just thought of it. Polite. Considerate. Sickening.

  Of course he made it impossible. Nemurus had to say no, no; nothing he wanted to discuss was confidential… This cut across the first principle of the great stoic philosopher Epictetus, who said that people should not lie.

  ‘So what do you want to talk about?’ demanded Lucilla bluntly.

  Nemurus had to come clean. He harboured a suspicion Lucilla and Vinius were laughing at him. He felt constantly uncomfortable.

  One of the charges against Domitian was that in the aftermath of the Saturninus Revolt he had forced confessions by ordering men’s genitals to be set on fire. Vinius Clodianus had reduced Nemurus to a wreck by simply handing round canapes. Lucilla was still enjoying the sweetmeats, unaware that her ex-husband was imagining her lover ramming snacks down a suspect’s throat…

  Nemurus said he wanted to ask about the implications of recent opposition trials. Lucilla professed she was confused. Nemurus carefully offered to explain. (The Praetorian, he noticed, said nothing; presumably he kept details of previously condemned subversives all on file.)

  ‘It began about thirty years ago with a senator called Thrasea Paetus, who stood up to Nero. For example, he walked out of the Senate without voting when asked to approve the letter Nero sent to justify murdering his own mother, Agrippina.’

  ‘A terrible woman?’

  ‘Agreed, but it was matricide. Paetus offended Nero, then retired to private life. But his role model was the upright Cato, who had drawn attention to the ambitions of Julius Caesar; Paetus wrote Cato’s panegyric. The simple style of living that Paetus adopted seemed an affront to Nero’s crazy court. He was charged before the Senate, who caved in and convicted him, it is said, due to the presence of large numbers of intimidating troops.’

  ‘Hmm,’ commented Vinius: some uninterpretable professional remark.

  Nemurus swallowed. ‘Paetus went home and opened his veins. His daughter Fannia, who was charged in this latest trial, was married to Helvidius Priscus, another ardent stoic. He survived from Nero to Vespasian, though he was banished by Nero at one point for demonstrating approval of Caesar’s murderers.’

  ‘That is illegal?’ Lucilla asked Vinius.

  ‘No wise man displays busts of Brutus and Cassius, nor celebrates their birthdays.’ His tone was neutral, suspiciously so, Nemurus thought. Vinius now joined the discussion: ‘Wouldn’t you say Helvidius Priscus embodies how these stoics deliberately confront emperors?’

  ‘You mean his quarrels with Vespasian?’

  ‘Yes; he was lucky that Vespasian was a tolerant old fellow, who let him continue his abominable behaviour for so long. Helvidius refused to acknowledge Vespasian as emperor in his judicial edicts as praetor. That was bloody rude. He resolutely called Vespasian by his private name, instead of his title. For the Emperor it must have been galling.’

  Nemurus explained, ‘Helvidius was disgusted that Vespasian wanted to foun
d a hereditary dynasty. He always refused to compromise, until Vespasian felt obliged to execute him. Vespasian is said to have tried to rescind the order.’

  ‘An old trick, but looks good!’ answered Vinius, smiling.

  Nemurus was a little shocked. It had never struck him that Vespasian could have been devious about it.

  ‘Now,’ said Vinius, ‘Senecio’s treason must have been deliberate: he wrote a sympathetic biography of Helvidius Priscus.’

  ‘But it was a funeral eulogy… Have you read it?’ A teacher’s question. Nemurus noticed that Vinius avoided answering. He found it extremely hard to gauge this one-eyed man’s expression. Presumably if a Praetorian Guard did read republican literature, it was for obnoxious state reasons.

  ‘Gaius went to the trial.’ Lucilla leaned forwards and spoke earnestly across her lover’s lap, ‘You do realise the position Gaius Vinius holds now? He is the cornicularius — the Guards’ chief-of-staff.’

  ‘Just a bean-counter,’ Vinius put in, this time definitely smiling.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Nemurus in a hollow voice.

  Vinius stood up. ‘I’ll fetch more bites.’

  An interlude followed, during which both Vinius and Lucilla came and went, bringing items for an informal supper. They clearly assumed that Nemurus would stay. New wine appeared. Perhaps by an oversight, Vinius only poured it for Lucilla and himself, but Lucilla seamlessly reached over and filled Nemurus’ beaker. It was a very palatable red from Spain. Clearly, they lived well.

  ‘Tell him about the trial, Gaius.’

  ‘Seems a shame to spoil a pleasant evening.’

  ‘Well he already knows it stank.’

  ‘These are good; where did you get them?’ Vinius was asking about seafood rissoles. It was not a distraction; intrigued, Nemurus watched their relaxed interplay between political and domestic subjects. Lucilla answered, then Vinius smoothly summarised the controversial treason trial as if the interruption never happened.

  The seven accused included Arria, the fanatical widow of Thrasea Paetus and Fannia, his equally determined daughter, widow of Helvidius Priscus. Arulenus Rusticus, a friend of Thrasea, was convicted for writing a panegyric on him, a work which Domitian had had burned. Rusticus’ brother and sister-in-law were also on trial.

  Senecio’s oration for Helvidius Priscus had been written at Fannia’s request and in court Mettius Carus forced her, using brutal interrogation, to admit she lent Senecio her husband’s notebooks. Senecio had further damned himself by refusing to stand for public office.

  Helvidius Priscus junior, the late stoic’s son, was on a different charge: he had written a play. Based on the story of the Trojan prince Paris abandoning his first wife Oenone for Helen of Troy, it looked like a jibe at Domitian for divorcing Domitia over the actor, also aptly named Paris, supposedly to enable his passion for Julia.

  ‘Domitian made both Rusticus and Helvidius junior consuls last year,’ Vinius pointed out. ‘Diffusing the opposition through friendly overtures.’

  ‘Buying them off,’ scoffed Lucilla. ‘It never works!’

  Three male defendants were now to be executed; Domitian had banished the other four, three of them women, to remote islands. The whole affair had become another cause celebre. This show trial would always be cited as proof that Domitian was a despot.

  ‘If you are worried about your own position, Nemurus,’ said Vinius, ‘forget it. Domitian has no quarrel with stoics as such. The condemned committed very public sins: parading their republicanism, a long family history of enmity with the Flavians, withholding themselves from public duties — plus writings that made saints of previous martyrs.’

  ‘Don’t write any eulogies,’ instructed Lucilla crisply.

  ‘So much for my proposed Life and Times of the Late Herrenius Senecio…’ Even Nemurus could make jokes. ‘I teach, dear; I don’t write. Just tell me,’ he pleaded with Vinius. ‘Are there to be banishments of philosophers?’

  ‘Sorry. Privileged information.’

  ‘I think it will happen, Vinius.’

  ‘I think you are right.’

  ‘You said it was privileged.’

  ‘The information is. I gave you my opinion.’

  ‘Subtle! Luckily you have freedom of speech.’

  ‘True,’ said Vinius. ‘What a glorious regime we live in, under our Master and God.’

  Lucilla put a hand on his arm. ‘Gaius, stop teasing. What should he do?’

  ‘Does he need to do anything?’ Vinius shrugged. ‘I don’t want to insult the man, but he is well below the sight-lines. Why would anyone bother to attack you, Nemurus?’

  ‘We live in dark times — but not for most people.’ Lucilla reinforced Vinius’ comment.

  ‘Be realistic.’ Vinius was blunt. ‘You are not worth it. The old prosecutors of Thrasea Paetus gained five million sesterces from it. The latest lot will make their pile, plus Domitian’s gratitude. If you are anxious however, get out of Rome, man. Go now. Go of your own accord, so you can choose your destination and find a quiet life.’

  ‘He cannot afford it,’ protested Lucilla.

  ‘ Exactly! A poor teacher is not worth prosecuting.’

  Nemurus remained silent and despondent.

  ‘So what’s perturbing you?’ insisted Vinius.

  ‘What happened to Juvenal. He was in the circle I move in.’

  Lucilla growled. ‘The idiot cannot expect to get away forever with saying Julia died after popping out a series of aborted foetuses, “each the image of Uncle”.’

  Vinius winced, then nodded. ‘Nor his descriptions of Domitian’s council in that turbot-cooking satire. He was brutal — about important men, many of whom are professional informers: very shortsighted.’

  ‘You know the work of Juvenal?’ Nemurus was amazed. The Satires had not yet been formally published, though drafts had been read at private parties; presumably, Vinius had been informed by spies.

  ‘So what has happened to this bloody daft author, Nemurus?’ The Praetorian pretended not to know.

  ‘Apparently there were whispers of “a promotion”; Juvenal is an equestrian. He thought he was to have an honourable military posting; instead he was packed off to an oasis miles from civilisation, stuck in a quarry in the Egyptian desert.’

  ‘Classic Domitian!’ Vinius guffawed unkindly. ‘I have a thought,’ he then offered. ‘If you do consider moving, Nemurus, I know someone with a working farm on the Bay of Naples. It’s towards Surrentum and escaped the volcano. She might welcome a respectable tenant living there as a rent-free caretaker.’

  ‘Who is this?’ asked Lucilla a little too quickly.

  ‘Caecilia.’ Vinius twinkled. ‘It’s her famous legacy. Decent size, room for you to take your parents, if that’s a worry, Nemurus; great views; the best weather in the world. Domitian’s villa is safely on the opposite side of the Bay. The area is being revived after the eruption and there is plenty of culture for a man like yourself.’

  ‘Have you been there?’ Lucilla demanded.

  ‘No. Septimus took a look.’

  ‘He would!’ They had dinner with Septimus and Caecilia occasionally now; Lucilla felt ambiguous about the friendship.

  ‘Who are these people?’ Nemurus sensed undercurrents.

  ‘My ex-wife and her husband. Nice couple. Obviously,’ said Gaius, teasing Lucilla, ‘Septimus owes me a favour for freeing up Caecilia and her fabulous farm for him.’

  ‘Bastard.’ Lucilla showed him no real malice.

  Gaius then reached across the arm of her chair and clasped her hand, looking at her tenderly.

  Public displays of affection between men and women were traditionally un-Roman, but even with Nemurus awkwardly watching, the couple continued to hold hands. Nemurus could tell they did it frequently, whether anyone was there or not.

  The meal ended. The wine flagon was not refilled. Nemurus decided to mention that he must be going.

  Lucilla merely waved him off, staying where she wa
s. It was Vinius who saw him out. The Praetorian actually came onto the landing, holding the door closed behind him. ‘I meant what I said about Naples. If it seems good, let me know.’

  ‘That is unexpectedly kind of you.’

  ‘I want something,’ Vinius admitted. His tone was unexceptional, but his stare was harder. ‘Don’t look so worried. My affection for Lucilla has always shielded you. Sincerely, I do not expect anyone else to betray you either. Our Master and God permits honest philosophy; what you believe, even what you teach, is your own affair. But I want to protect Lucilla.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t contact her again. This is not personal, though I suppose you are entitled to think so. If ever any informer should look at you too closely, I do not want them to pick up a silver snailtrail leading to her.’

  The teacher chewed his lip.

  ‘She is defiant in her choice of friends,’ said the Praetorian softly. ‘She will not drop you; so you have to do it. “ The point is, not how long you live, but how nobly. ” Seneca,’ Vinius spelt out. ‘You know: wise, compassionate, amiable — one of those worthy men of literature who got himself killed by a mad emperor.’

  29

  One day, in his thirty-seventh year, when he ought to have known better, the Praetorian cornicularius Clodianus was called in to the Prefects’ office and invited to join a small committee of like-minded men. He could see no way to wriggle out. It was proposed to him, as such nightmares always are, as an honour.

  Privately, he thought the term ‘like-minded men’ carried the same whiff as ‘concerned citizens’; it meant madmen with unpleasant designs on society. He had served in the vigiles. He had kept the surveillance lists of mathematicians, Christians and astrologers. He knew what like-minded men who gathered in furtive groups were generally aiming for and as a soldier he disliked it.

  ‘There has been bit of toing and froing on this,’ the Prefect admitted. It was Casperius Aelianus, the man Gaius first met after Dacia. ‘Usual nonsense. Changes of mind. Waiting for a decision. Still, we seem to be clear now, and you’ll be glad to know it has been agreed you are absolutely the right man for the job.’