Master and God

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘The Piso affair,’ Gaius challenged bluntly. ‘Total cock-up, I recall. Debauched candidate. Huge group of conspirators — over forty people, no? — all with conflicting motives. Action delayed until it all unravelled hopelessly; slaves snitching on masters; promises of immunity that were filthily broken; suicides; betrayals; amoral prosecutors, out to make a mint. None showed a jot of the morality of Epicharis.’

  ‘No, indeed. Faenius Rufius, the Praetorian Prefect, was originally right in it,’ added Parthenius, who must have been an official at the time. ‘Became one of the most vicious accusers, covering himself. He died anyway.’ Mentioning this reprehensible Prefect was a mean sideswipe. ‘Lessons must be learned, Clodianus. We rely on you to keep our Prefects in order!’ Gaius sniffed at that. He would need to be ambidextrous. Parthenius lowered his voice, though it was hardly necessary on his own property and so far from Rome: ‘I am entertaining your esteemed Petronius Secundus later this week.’

  ‘After the rest of us leave?’

  ‘He will feel happier. A happy Prefect is a friendly one, I hope.. Well, to your bed, man,’ Parthenius urged. ‘Our delectable Lucilla will be wondering what kept you. I hope your room is satisfactory.’

  ‘We have simple tastes,’ Gaius assured him.

  A chamberlain was bound to fuss about domestic matters. ‘I want everyone to be comfortable.’

  ‘Appreciated.’

  Gaius would not be packed to bed like a teenager. He stood his ground until Parthenius wandered off on whatever household rounds were necessary in such a remote location, then he deliberately stayed longer in the garden. Above, the open sky had faded to a magical violet hue. A few faint stars became visible.

  Once alone, Gaius mused despondently on the likelihood that a half-baked, behind-the-scenes bunch of fancy factotums might actually one day (the day in question being one of tomorrow’s agenda items) manage to dispose of Domitian.

  Kill him.

  Kill the Emperor. Words a good Praetorian Guard was conditioned to find outrageous. Any Praetorian. Including Gaius Vinius Clodianus.

  Blundering noises from the nearby woods announced arrivals; nothing sinister, just Lucilla, holding a leash, and Terror, dragging her excitedly. Previously a complete town dog, Terror had been here less than an hour when he disgraced himself by assuming the horticultural plant pots buried in the garden had been put there with hidden bones for him. He had worked his way down half a row, destroying the elegant specimens they contained, before he was stopped. Gaius and Lucilla had underestimated the hard work involved in bringing a spoiled pet from Rome to the wilds of the country.

  ‘Done his business?’

  ‘Eventually. You take him next time!’ Lucilla grumbled. ‘It’s so dark! I was petrified — you know Horace once saw a wolf here when he was strolling about singing. It ran away from him, luckily.’

  ‘Any wolf that turns tail from a poet is a crap wolf.’

  ‘And a tree fell on Horace once and nearly brained him.’

  Gaius, now softened by the quiet country night, enveloped her and kissed her. ‘You might be brained by a windowbox in a city street just as easily… I could live in a place like this.’

  ‘On a farm?’

  ‘I own a farm,’ Gaius reminded her. He made it sound significant. ‘In Spain.’

  The dog had covered his snout and legs with leaf litter and had rolled in a pungent substance that had been deposited by a wild animal with a foul diet. They had to take him to the baths to be washed before he could go back in the house. There was no one about, but the single slave on duty volunteered to clean up Baby, keeping him well outside the pristine suite of hot rooms. Gaius and Lucilla had arrived too soon before dinner for more than basic ablutions, so as there was still hot water they went in and enjoyed the rare thrill of bathing together.

  Gaius thwacked into the plunge pool, emerging to find Lucilla laughing as she watched him. After shaking off showers of water drops, he floated on his back naked and cheerful — the Gaius that Lucilla loved to see.

  ‘Oh I could get used to this! In Tarraconensis, I am told, my old centurion’s estate includes a farmhouse, like the simple place Horace had here originally. My manager says it’s become a hovel, so I could transfer money out there and rebuild. Mosaics and my own bath house to chase you round — there’s a thought.’

  ‘ That much money? And Tarraconensis?’ repeated Lucilla in pretend tones of horror.

  Parthenius’ slaves had kindly left snacks and wine in their bedroom. The bed was soft with feather mattresses and pillows, in the lush, almost effeminate taste most wealthy palace freedmen had. Giggling, they made the most of it. At least they tried to, until Baby began howling.

  Later, when they were back in Rome, Lucilla realised that must have been the night she became pregnant.

  In fairness, Gaius did like the Parthenius plotting agenda:

  Why?

  Where, when, how, who?

  What unlucky bugger do we choose to go next?

  For obvious reasons this was never written down.

  Gaius approved of the fact that Why was never taken for granted, but was formally considered. ‘Our once caring and conscientious ruler has become a cruel tyrant. There is no chance he might leave voluntarily. We must remove him.’

  Agreed.

  Where: they decided it must be done in Rome. Alba was remote but Domitian was equally protected there. In view of the rumours that started when Nero died outside the city, even only four miles away, Rome would make the event appear more open.

  Those gathered at Horace’s villa never introduced themselves, though some were recognisable, including Entellus, the petitions secretary, another bureaucratic mogul. He sought advice from the cornicularius. Lucilla was surprised Gaius cooperated, though she then realised his contribution was so factual anyone could safely say such things openly: they should avoid the horror of a death in public. So not at the Games. The palace offered a secure, containable location, ‘where any balls-ups can remain hidden.’ His soldierly belief that hitches were inevitable made the others look nervous.

  A long argument ensued, with people faffing about whether to tackle their victim at dinner or the baths. At dinner, it was thought he might be relaxed and off-guard — although Domitian’s main meal was generally lunch. In the baths, anyone was vulnerable. Clodianus pointed out dryly that an armed, clothed assassin would stand out among the oiled nudes, plus there was a risk the would-be killer would slip on a wet floor and go arse-over-tip. He spoke gravely, yet appeared insidiously satirical.

  Too difficult: the dinner or baths debate was dropped. Parthenius ordered up a buffet lunch. They ate in the garden, to the sounds of cicadas and tumbling water. Baby was having the time of his life in the elegant pool; the young boy Burrus was boisterously playing with him.

  When depended on Domitian being in the capital. Parthenius would keep a close watch on his diary for a suitable moment; first he wanted to wait until there was a favourable consul, to keep a grip on senators. Then the Senate could be summoned quickly, too, and the next emperor proclaimed fast. Whoever that was. They discussed other important people in Rome. With the Praetorian Prefects sympathetic (or Secundus sympathetic and Norbanus somehow dealt with), the Prefects of the City and Vigiles would probably acquiesce, locking down Rome until everything had settled. If Rome stayed calm, there would be more chance of avoiding mutiny abroad.

  They had to consider Domitia Longina. While afternoon refreshments were brought — for this was a very comfortable kind of conspiracy — Parthenius asked if Lucilla could transfer her services to the Empress, now Domitilla was gone.

  ‘To observe?’ asked Gaius, with a narrow look. ‘Working for the plot?’

  ‘An idealist would say, she is working for Rome,’ corrected Parthenius.

  Lucilla smiled. Gaius did not buy that crap. Neither did she. ‘Is Domitia Longina aware of us? If not, is she to be told?’

  ‘What would you advise, Lucilla?’

  ‘
Say nothing. Never force her to choose sides.’

  ‘My feeling is,’ Parthenius said, ‘she is now trapped with him, in fear for her life.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate her loyalty,’ Lucilla warned. ‘She married him for love, and in their way it has been a successful partnership. Despite his mad behaviour, she has shown she means to stick it out.’

  ‘But she must feel certain he no longer loves her.’

  ‘So? I don’t suppose she still loves him. How could she? Women stay married for plenty of reasons. She has always been conscious of her position as Corbulo’s daughter; she is equally proud to be the Augusta, with her crowns and carriages. Those two still have the habits of enduring one another that come from any lengthy marriage. So, for safety, keep her out of it.’

  How? Poison was problematical, and a woman’s method. Nero’s attempts to murder his mother had shown that trick beds, drowning accidents or the like were foolish and dented public confidence. Strangling was a punishment for criminals; in Rome, it was important to respect rank. This was an emperor; they were terminating his career for decent reasons. Ever since Julius Caesar, despots had been killed with blades. That was the mark of noble killers, killers with consciences.

  Who became a poser. People tried to pressurise Clodianus, the only soldier present; he refused the honour, citing what his Prefect Secundus had said: that the Guards should only refrain from intervention. Parthenius said he had some ideas, but deferred a decision.

  What unlucky bugger do we choose next? Everyone pitched in to discuss a replacement emperor.

  Entellus, the petitions secretary, went through a list, apparently without notes. Emperor was hardly a job anyone could apply for, in the way of requesting a sideways move to Supplies or an upgrade to Transportation. On the other hand, if the position ceased to be hereditary, this was no different from putting together any promotion board.

  ‘Ought we to consider the two Flavian boys?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No boy emperors.’

  ‘No relations of Domitian either.’

  Their team had to headhunt a man of standing and calibre, but critically, someone who would agree to do it. Based on Entellus’ suggestions, names of men to approach were shared out among people who knew them. Previous attempts to interest a candidate had miserably come to nothing. Those asked had changed their minds, were waiting for their wives’ reactions, had already been told to say no by the wife, were too cautious, or ill, or had an ill grandfather they were suddenly very fond of, or were aware of the situation and thought these were novel proposals but unfortunately could not make full disclosure of their intentions at this stage…

  Some front-runners were abroad, acting as governors of provinces or generals. Others were too old. A few with the right level of experience had foreign origins and there had never been a foreign emperor; Trajan, who certainly believed himself up to the job, was Spanish.

  ‘Unfortunate!’

  ‘His bad luck… What about that fellow who did all those years in Britain and whopped the natives? Agricola? We should not dismiss him simply because he had the bad luck to draw a ghastly province and got stuck there. Mind you, isn’t he from Gaul?’

  Entellus was discreetly consulting scrolls. He whispered to Parthenius, who informed the gathering that they were spared having to consider the ex-governor of Britain, since he had died. Nobody had wanted to denigrate a province simply for being obscenely remote, or a candidate for having had to serve there. Nobody wanted a Gaul. Gaius, who cynically watched this performance, noticed veiled relief all round.

  Another ex-governor of Britain, Julius Frontinus, was on their list; he had governed Asia too, which was more reassuring. Frontinus was born in Italy, so he must be sound.

  There were other difficulties. Half the possible candidates had a close allegiance to Domitian — or might do; it was not always easy to tell how they would jump. He chose good men; good men had ethics; but ethical men might think it their duty to oppose a despot…

  Everyone was drained by the intense discussion. Lucilla nudged Gaius to signal that one man had gone to sleep. Another kept getting up and going out; either he was whispering information to a hidden accomplice or he had a weak bladder.

  The agenda was abandoned and they adjourned for dinner.

  Towards the end of a fine meal, accompanied by flutes and decent conversation that deliberately ignored the conspiracy, Parthenius approached Lucilla. ‘Tell me about the cornicularius.’ Parthenius suspected Clodianus had only attended the meeting to keep an eye on his girl, now she had become so passionate about Domitian’s removal. If Clodianus became too anxious about her, he might be a risk. What were his own loyalties? Did Clodianus even know?

  ‘He has one Prefect sending him to spy, and one who wants to help us. Opposite orders… Don’t push him,’ Lucilla urged. ‘He hates it.’

  ‘Can we rely on him?’

  ‘I do,’ stated Lucilla unquestioningly. ‘He cares. You can trust him.’

  ‘With that wrecked face, I find it hard to decipher him. But you manage?’

  ‘I have known him a long time.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Over fifteen years.’

  ‘I never realised. You have both been extremely discreet.’

  ‘Long story!’ chuckled Lucilla. ‘In my view, Vinius Clodianus is completely decent. When things matter, he never hesitates.’

  They watched Gaius. He knew they were observing him, and he knew why.

  He had cornered Parthenius’ freedman Maximus to enthuse about his favourite scoff: ‘Your portions must be well roasted in olive oil. They need to be glossy and golden. Then the gravy is the real point. Chicken Frontinian is not for mimsy eaters who only pick at finger food. Serve the chicken in a decent bowl of sauce, either to mop up with a lot of old bread, or, well, you can just pick up your bowl and glug it down at the end.’

  ‘Gaius, you are a barbarian!’ Lucilla called.

  He shrugged off the tease. ‘And pepper is essential. A good sprinkle all over, before serving.’

  ‘Not a dish for the poor then?’ joked Maximus.

  ‘No. I take my own peppercorns if I’m eating out, in case the waiter is mean.’

  ‘He really does,’ confirmed Lucilla, as she made her way over to Gaius. ‘He makes them bring a mortar to the table. You have to find it endearing — or you would cringe.’

  Reclining alongside Gaius, Lucilla unexpectedly made a declaration to the company at large. For Gaius and her, this was a rare public appearance as a couple. She surprised herself with the confidence that gave her: ‘I know we agreed to have no business talk at table, but this is what we want. Don’t we need to recover a world where you can dine at ease, at home or in public, enjoying the fabulous ingredients our Empire makes available? Enjoying skilled cookery and service? Most of all, enjoying such good company as we have here tonight — without getting heartburn because you are racked with tension, and without constantly looking over your shoulder in case an informer reports unguarded words to a cruel tyrant?’

  ‘Being able to trust dinner companions, hired waiters and the little slave who helps remove your shoes,’ Parthenius agreed.

  Even Gaius took a hand, smiling: ‘A world where Parthenius can safely bring his boy to listen in on the grown-ups.’ The sleepy-eyed young Burrus woke up and blushed. Gaius went on seriously, ‘Where you never have to look sideways at your wife nor keep your opinions hidden from your girlfriend — assuming you can get one as fine as I fortunately have to share my couch this evening!’

  Lucilla smiled at his compliment. She could see that Parthenius was still wondering if this was a clever ploy from Gaius or if he had genuinely opened up. Was it the wine talking? Gaius had been quaffing in Praetorian style. He was mellow though not drunk, she thought, even though he turned and smiled back at her with giddying sweetness.

  They returned to Rome the next day. Many decisions had failed to materialise, yet the project had moved on. People took away ta
sks — even though Gaius claimed knowledgeably that at the next meeting there would be complaints of inaction, caused by plotters being too terrified to approach anyone.

  Lucilla was buoyant. Gaius, too, felt a hardening of purpose, which became all the more fixed after a couple of months when, simultaneously, they realised that Lucilla was to have a child.

  A pang of uncertainty passed between them, before it was obvious they both welcomed this. Although pregnancy was unpredictable and birth a threat to both mother and baby, they were both happy that they were now to become a family. Ironically, they also treated their news like diagnosis of an incurable disease: during the next months, both began putting their affairs in order.

  Gaius had decided to leave the Praetorians as soon as he had served his sixteen years. He informed both Prefects that his girlfriend was carrying, so he wanted to legitimise their relationship, and he started training an optio. The conservative Norbanus was particularly solicitous; it was a good Roman tradition to father a family and he assumed Gaius intended to produce a row of soldiers.

  Strictly speaking, a retired Praetorian would be in the reserves for two years. ‘That assumes they can find me!’ muttered Gaius.

  Lucilla meanwhile had learned about the compensation money Gaius squeezed from Lachne’s lover, Orgilius. She split it between the two slavegirls she worked with, giving them their freedom too. Calliste wanted to get married; Glyke in all probability never would, but Lucilla saw no reason for her to lose out. She treated them equally, letting them know that if ever she and Gaius decided to move away from Rome, she would leave them her business.

  The couple vaguely prepared people for the idea that they might relocate one day, if they were not too disorganised to manage it. There was mention of Campania, where unclaimed land whose owners died in the Vesuvian eruption was being made available. Gaius cracked jokes about returning to Dacia as one of the Roman experts sent to support King Decebalus under Domitian’s unpopular treaty. Lucilla dropped other hints: that the prospect of a baby had given her the freedwoman’s dream to see the eastern homeland from whence her mother was originally taken…