Master and God

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘Do we take them seriously?’

  ‘We do. Such letters must always be scanned very carefully. I read this horrible batch you circulated, and while I am open to other opinions — ’ The Guard made a graceful gesture with his tea bowl (though he did not pause to let other committee members interrupt) ‘to me these are all low grade. A mix of genuine mental illness and crackpot idealism: nothing that I anticipate will end in a serious attempt. Solo efforts, scribbled by loners in garrets, people who will never in reality emerge from their hidey-holes.’

  ‘You cannot detect organisation?’ asked Abascantus, to demonstrate his grasp of the issue.

  ‘No, although you clearly understand that is what we have to fear. But nothing suggests a plot. If we trace these senders, they can be dealt with in the usual way.’ Nobody wanted to ask what that was.

  Someone did risk enquiring what would happen in practice if a deranged loner turned up with a weapon outside Domitian’s audience room.

  Clodianus replied patiently. ‘As I’m sure you know, Vespasian made a public point of ending the tradition that visitors were checked for swords.’ The others all tried to look well informed. ‘Well, don’t believe everything you read in the Daily Gazette. The new ruling was meant to end senators having to endure the indignity of a search. Old Vespasian had had it done to him and he loathed the experience. But believe me, the Guards frisk everybody else. We carry swords, but otherwise, not so much as a pocket fruit-knife passes in. Even attendants are forbidden arms.’

  ‘Have I not seen Parthenius with a weapon?’ sniped Abascantus.

  ‘The bedchamber man?’ Clodianus smiled. ‘Yes, Domitian gave him a special dispensation. It makes the favoured Parthenius feel like a big meatball, I’m sure. Last time I looked, he had a bit of a toy in that fancy scabbard. I assume we discount Parthenius as an assassin?’ he threw back.

  Abascantus assented primly. ‘Parthenius is one of the Emperor’s most trusted servants.’ The Guard had a shadow of a grin, as if he was thinking, Top of my suspects list, then!

  Clodianus continued his assessment of the most recent death threats, down-to-earth yet never disrespectful. Eventually Abascantus spotted what he had been up to. By a sleight of hand while he was talking, the hungry cornicularius had whisked all the nibbles his way and cleared the platter.

  Even though they constantly lost out to him on refreshments, other members soon came to regard this Clodianus as their rock. He brought commonsense and clarity to what could all have been rather hysterical. Abascantus preened himself on his sound choice. (He overlooked the fact that his co-optee had been put forward in the first place by the Prefect, Casperius Aelianus.)

  Once during a discussion, Abascantus caught a fly, crushing it between two fingers in mid air. It was a sign, should one be needed, of how sharp the chief secretary was. Nothing wrong with his reactions. Nothing squeamish there. As the freedman wiped his fingers clean on a napkin, he noticed the Praetorian shot him a fast gleam of admiration, the way someone would indicate ‘ Good catch! ’ on the move, while flinging beanbags at the gym. Even so, Abascantus always had a feeling that Vinius Clodianus viewed these proceedings with some sly undercurrent of satire.

  For a long time that fly being caught was the most exciting thing that happened at their meetings.

  31

  It was comparatively quiet, the year many would call the Reign of Terror. Maybe that very quietness increased the fear. Nobody knew what was happening.

  What’s he up to?

  Who knows?

  Rumours were everywhere.

  Nonetheless, for domestic slaves buying leeks at a stall, for market-gardeners, for young men wrestling in a gymnasium, for toothless old folk dreaming in the sun, for small children trying to keep awake on uncomfortable outdoor benches while primary school teachers drearily intoned alphabets — and for their bored teachers — or for matrons having their hair dressed, most of the time nothing special happened. People who kept diaries would have found them dull reading afterwards.

  No one with any sense did write a diary, in case it was ever held against them.

  You never knew. That was the problem: doubt that festered and smelt like unnoticed spilt milk, all of the time. Everyone was clenching their buttocks in a permanent state of anxiety and the only people who did well out of that were apothecaries who sold greasy haemorrhoid ointments from discreet little booths down suburban side streets. For body-slaves who had to apply these suppositories to the inflamed rear ends of groaning masters, it was not such good news.

  A good masseur could make a pile from fees and tips. Uncertain times caused psychosomatic bad backs. Hylus, the top masseur at the public baths that Vinius Clodianus liked, declared that an impacted disc was the signature symptom of political gloom.

  Vinius had no problems with his spine; Hylus put this down to regular sex. Vinius smiled mysteriously so Hylus took that as affirmative. He knew when a client was much happier these days.

  Booksellers were having a hard time. Statius had published his Thebeid two years earlier and it sank like a stone. (Not even the frankest critics told him that was because even as epics go, it was awful.) The first three books of his Silvae were now on sale, his occasional poetry. That little scroll struggled too, but then most of his friends and many members of the public had already heard him read the pieces. ‘The New Bath House of Claudius Etruscus’ held little interest for anyone except Claudius Etruscus, especially since the show-off freedman was not inviting the sweaty Roman public to enjoy his marble plunge pool and silver pipes, only his elite friends — the ones who had already sat through the poem at far too many dinner parties. Otherwise, Rutilius Gallicus was now not even old news but a forgotten man, and what was the point in praising his recovery from the nervous breakdown when he had since died of something else? An epitaph for an arena lion was limp; sceptics said the poem was so short, and weak, because Statius had shied away from saying this was the enormous lion killed by the unfortunate Glabrio when Domitian tried to polish him off. Statius chickened out. Still, he would not waste a poem he had started, so here were thirty rather soppy lines to the late Leo…

  His friends expected free scrolls with florid inscriptions. Lucilla did buy one; she was thoughtful and supportive. Even she decided Statius was unworldly. When Gaius found the scroll hidden under a cushion, Lucilla was prepared to admit that, on being shown stylised verses entitled Forest Leaves, most readers would exit quickly from the bookshop and splurge their cash on street food.

  ‘Bright idea. While you work up an appetite reading how our Master and God graciously invited wonderful Statius to a Saturnalia party — free cheese puffs and belly dancers with big breasts; ooh how exciting! — I’ll nip out and fetch us a chicken supper.’

  ‘He does not specify the flirty-girls’ bustband size.’

  ‘Too rude. Make him too popular. This silly bugger describes your Earinus — ’

  ‘Not mine.’

  ‘Having his eunuch operation, without even saying “testicles”. The bum has no idea how to write a bestseller. He dreams of being read by an adoring minority in two thousand years’ time, when he should be putting loaves on the table now… Do you want a delicious Frontinian?’

  ‘Yes, please, dear heart.’

  ‘Any sides?’

  ‘Just a green salad and a kiss from you.’

  ‘Good news!’ chortled Gaius. ‘Kisses are this week’s special offer. Ask for one, get a hundred free.’

  That was, thought Lucilla, slightly derivative of the poet Catullus although it must be accidental. Gaius would maintain no putrid poet suggested his lines, and Lucilla accepted that they came from his own heart.

  Domitian was suffering a bad period, that much was known. His paranoia had flared up like a boil; the fear was that it would escalate with no remission. Full details of his illness were carefully concealed, because the illnesses of the great are privileged information for supposed national interest reasons.

  ‘I would have th
ought,’ groaned Gaius, ‘it was in the national interest to know if we are being governed by a maniac.’

  He was having his own flare-up — of gloomy cynicism. Many of the Guards were in low spirits. They preferred to be protecting a ruler who set an example of splendid control, not a head-case. Some of the old hands were spending time in drinking dens remembering how much they had liked Titus.

  Despite precautions, hints leaked out. People at court had overheard tantrums and slammed doors. They noticed how the palace slaves slunk along corridors keeping close to the wall, heads down and unwilling to be spoken to. Imperial freedmen were jumpy. The Empress never gave anything away, yet even she seemed even more hard-faced than usual.

  In the rest of the Empire things seemed quiet. The bad result was that Domitian stayed in Italy therefore, either in Rome itself or at Alba or Naples or some other place too close for comfort. Some resort where the inhabitants thought he was marvellous (because the lower class never saw much of him) while the uppercrust (who did see him close up) were beginning to get itchy about hosting him on their patch.

  There were occasional upsets. A tribe in Africa, the Nasamones, rebelled against brutal Roman tax gatherers. There were savage reprisals, but they fought back and invaded the Roman commander’s camp. Then, drunk on wine they had looted, the rebel tribe were wiped out. When details were reported, Domitian proudly announced, ‘I have forbidden the Nasamones to exist.’ Uncompromising words. Liberal minds were shocked.

  Eventually new war loomed on the Danube. He enjoyed war, and it kept him occupied. Taking his time, absorbed in every detail, he was at his best. For once, his introverted character made him ideal. It combined his strange personal mixture of brooding with his talent for strong, obsessive planning. He was as good at second-guessing foreign tribes as at scrutinising perceived rivals in Rome; they were all his enemies. But nobody else could decide whether to be reassured or nervous. Which did make them nervous.

  All his advisory council were agitated. ‘Nothing new,’ said Gaius. ‘But perhaps some of them may one day break out in spots and tackle him.’

  ‘Is that a hope, love?’

  ‘I’m a Guard. I would have to give naughty boys a reprimand.’

  ‘Since it would mean burning off their goolies and putting their heads on spikes in the Forum, they may hold back.’

  ‘I fear so,’ replied Gaius. ‘He’s got them all so hypnotised with dread, we must be stuck with him.’

  Domitian either became more solitary or in public revelled in bad-mannered behaviour. He would finish an evening at court forcing the bullied diners to endure not just wrestlers, tumblers and jugglers but troupes of seedy entertainers from the east, or horrible fortune-tellers. Given the legal attitude to magic in general, and anything that touched on the Emperor’s personal fate in particular, this was doubly cruel. Reluctant participants were coerced into applauding these acts, although at any moment their host could contradict himself and turn on them for taking part in forbidden activities.

  Even at dinner, he would scarcely eat but would prowl and watch others, while belching or throwing food at his guests. It might seem uncouth but harmless, yet when people were too scared even to be seen wiping off the gravy with a napkin, it was an ugly abuse of power.

  ‘Anyone brought up by a batch of aunts knows that good rulers have good manners,’ Gaius grumbled. ‘Every time he burps in a senator’s face or flips a meatball, I hear my old granny mutter darkly from the grave, “courtesy costs nothing”. Of course you would never choose an emperor for his table habits, but it’s not unknown to be rid of one for crass behaviour — when a Praetorian Prefect finally snapped and murdered the Emperor Gaius, aka Caligula, the reason was that Caligula had given the Prefect, who was sensitive, an obscene watchword to pass on once too often.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘His name was Cassius Chaerea. Domitian should worry, because first the Guards ambushed the mad tyrant themselves, and then that was the time they created the next emperor: they found old Claudius hiding behind a curtain and proclaimed him on the spot.’

  ‘For a joke.’ Lucilla knew that story. ‘Is Casperius Aelianus sensitive?’

  ‘Not sensitive enough. A wood-block traditionalist. All “my Emperor, right or wrong” — so hard luck, Rome.’

  Domitian was determined to validate his own divinity, using that of his forebears. He inaugurated the splendid Temple of the Flavians, which he built on the site of his uncle’s house in Pomegranate Street. Domitian had been born in that house during the period when his father lacked funds, then he had spent a lot of time there later, with his uncle Flavius Sabinus, while Vespasian was away abroad.

  The new temple was spectacular. It dominated an area outside the traditional sites of public monuments, on the Quirinal Hill. Set in a large square porticus and magnificently elevated on a podium, it was striking even by the high standards of Domitian’s building programme. Marble and gold decorated the huge domed mausoleum; there were many very fine reliefs showing celebratory scenes that involved Vespasian and Titus, scenes which associated them with the mythical founders and heroes of Rome, such as Romulus, who was himself turned into a god, according to legend. Domitian brought the ashes of his father and brother, with those of Julia and other relatives, and installed them together here. For generations to come, this great temple would signify the permanence of Rome.

  Lucilla visited the Temple of the Gens Flavia along with other old family servants; it was a duty of Flavian freedmen and freedwomen to show formal respect. She had known Flavius Sabinus’ house from her earliest years and was saddened to see that comfortable private home turned first into a demolition site and then a strange new monument. Contrary to Domitian’s intentions, she felt that the family she had served with her mother and sister were now lost, rather than reaffirmed. Her patron Flavia Domitilla was married to Sabinus’ younger son, Clemens, who could, in theory, have felt he owned the original house even though Domitian had taken it over.

  Insofar as Domitilla spoke of her reaction, she seemed to share Lucilla’s saddened feelings. It was the first real sign of unease between the Clemens family and their cousin the Emperor, though more was to come.

  Turning the house into a temple had not rendered Clemens and Domitilla homeless. As the Emperor’s only surviving relatives and as parents of his designated heirs, they lived at the palace. Their two eldest sons had been renamed by their imperial uncle as Vespasian and Domitian. The young boys had been subtly separated from their parents; they had a good tutor in Quintilian, though he was getting on in years. Domitian himself gave them little attention. Lucilla knew their mother worried about their isolation.

  Nobody yet took them seriously. A lot could happen in Domitian’s mind before those boys inherited so much as an old cloak.

  The fact that he had identified two young brothers to succeed him had precedents. A spare was prudent. On the other hand, it could be divisive and among the conspiratorial Julio-Claudians it had never worked. Augustus’ heirs Gaius and Lucius both passed away from natural causes too soon but when Tiberius inherited with Gemellus, Gemellus quickly suffered fatal effects from a suspicious cough linctus, and when Nero inherited with his stepbrother Britannicus, almost his first brazen act was to have Britannicus handed a goblet of poisoned wine at a public banquet. If Domitian had been right when he claimed that Vespasian intended that Titus and he should rule jointly, and that Titus forged their father’s will to avoid this, then duality did not work among the Flavians either.

  It was now clear that Domitian’s mind churned with greater suspicion than ever just when, if the establishment of the great family shrine meant anything, he should have been most secure. Not only had he alienated himself from the Senate, but he harboured increasing doubts about the trustworthiness of his own servants. Imperial freedmen could no longer rely on the safety of their positions.

  As always, and as Themison had once suggested to Vinius and Gracilis, there could be a grain of reality in his
decisions. An example was his dismissal of an elderly freedman called Epaphroditus. In his heyday, Epaphroditus had been Nero’s petitions secretary. He had served Nero faithfully, especially when a senator named Calpurnius Piso plotted with others to organise a coup; loyalists revealed details to Epaphroditus, who immediately reported everything and the conspirators were arrested. To mark him saving his Emperor’s life, Epaphroditus was awarded military honours; he also became very wealthy. He remained close to Nero to the last. After Nero was declared a public enemy, Epaphroditus helped him flee and, when requested to do so, he assisted his quailing master to kill himself.

  Subsequently he continued in service. To be a remnant from a previous reign was never a good idea, nor did Epaphroditus endear himself by owning as a slave the leading stoic philosopher, Epictetus. Suddenly, Domitian banished the old scribe because of this connection to the opposition.

  Sometimes, it worked the other way. Early in his reign Domitian had dismissed a secretary of finance called Tiberius Julius, whom he recalled now, ten years later, allowing the elderly man to die in Rome at the grand age of ninety. Statius wrote a consolation to his son, another senior freedman called Claudius Etruscus.

  ‘He would!’ commented Gaius.

  ‘A nice gesture,’ reproved Lucilla.

  ‘Crass. Claudius Etruscus really does not want to be reminded that his papa was banished under a cloud. Not least, my darling, because it might make Etruscus scared that with Domitian in his current spiteful mood, the same thing can happen to him.’

  Once Gaius took against someone, he was merciless. ‘Look, he wrote a verse to celebrate the anniversary of the poet Lucan’s birth — ’

  ‘You snaffled my scroll!’

  ‘I was tidying the couch like a good boy. It tumbled on the floor from under the headrest. I assumed it must be saucy so I sneaked a look. Listen, your foolish friend says, when he and the widow, Pollia Argentaria, were discussing the birthday commission, “that rarest of wives wanted it written and billed to her account ” — surely the most revealing words he ever wrote? He has done it for the money! Well done, honest poet!’