Master and God

23

Ludicrous, thought Gaius. Here is the Prefect, who is in such panic he has mentally shut down. They have sent a man to care for him who is so chronically drunk, he is floating in clouds, hampered by a mile-high headache.

Watching over Rutilius, wafting kindness in that sad man’s direction, Gaius considered his own predicament. He was in a foul pit. He had dug it himself.

For three days, he had been a bigamist.

He wanted to ignore the situation, but it could not be avoided and raised a sweat along his hairline. He was so busy nipping from place to place to dodge people, like a servile cook in a comedy, he could neither solve the predicament nor take advantage of the possibility of sleeping with two wives. That was on hold for other reasons too.

Caecilia, to whom his brothers had bound him, was obviously disappointed and intending to endure her new marriage only as long as she had to. For her, Vinius Clodianus was merely a legal instrument. Under the stringent Augustan matrimony laws, as soon as her first husband passed on she had two years to remarry or she would lose a rather pleasant legacy; time was running out. Caecilia was, Gaius supposed, his fifth wife.

Onofria, his fourth, he could hardly bear to think about. Gaius Vinius, who called himself a careful man, a man of sense, had married a stranger he met in a bar. After one terrible, sloppily debauched evening had come a desperate night, now a dreadful dim recollection which rose repeatedly like vomit. At the time, he and Onofria had convinced themselves that their few hours of camaraderie were a sound basis for a lifetime together. In fairness to Onofria, once she sobered up, which took all of four days, she did point out that this was never going to work.

For the last three days, Vinius had also been married to Caecilia, with a wedding ring to prove it, something his fourth wife luckily failed to notice, being most of the time upended with her head in a bucket. With his fifth wife, Vinius was head of household of a neat, small, convenient apartment in Lion Street, and (he was astounded to learn) stepfather to three young children.

Caecilia had actually visited the Camp to find out where her bridegroom was. Onofria could never have made it, since even if she had had such a terrible idea, she was too queasy to go further than the apothecary on the corner of the street for medicines, which she took instead of food. In any case, Onofria would not chase him to his workplace, because she was an easy-going, hard-living, free-thinking, free-spirited woman, who even while recovering from a binge was only interested in wondering where her next night’s drinks would come from.

As far as he knew, Caecilia must have been headed off at the Camp (where soldiers were used to getting rid of women who believed themselves married to colleagues), so the cornicularius had not encountered her. Not so far. It was bound to happen. Gaius knew his superior took a dim view of men who bamboozled women into ‘marriage’ even though it was not allowed. Gaius was heading for more shit than Hercules cleaned from the Augean Stables. He was out of control. It was remarkable he was not having a nervous breakdown of his own.

Perhaps he was.

Rutilius was deteriorating. Tears began coursing down his cheeks. The doctor still had not arrived. Pharoun of Naxos: the official choice for this task.

Time for initiative. Gaius gave orders to the Guard who came with him: ‘Go to the Ludus Magnus and find Themison of Miletus, who bandages up the gladiators. Mention my name — ’ He tapped his face. ‘Describe this wreckage. Tell him I need help for a friend of mine. Oh — tell him it’s a different friend this time; otherwise he’ll wet himself. If he agrees, escort him politely. If he quibbles, rope him up and bring him anyway.’

Eager to put one over on Pharoun, Themison came promptly.

Rutilius refused to budge. They had to lift him up from his chair and shift him along physically. Gaius went first, walking backwards, enticing this great Roman figure forwards, beckoning with both hands as if he were catching a particularly neurotic pony. Themison and the Guard shoved the Prefect from behind, using a mix of respectfulness and brute force, as they manoeuvred him to a litter so they could take him to his own house.

‘Better come as well,’ Themison told Gaius while they got their breath back. ‘He seems to have formed a bond with you.’

Gaius had to stay at the Prefect’s house for a week before heavy sedation and various kindly treatments worked enough magic for Themison to release him. Before that, if he left the room even for ablutions, Rutilius became agitated.

The cornicularius was to say, ‘I told you to use initiative, not get yourself imprinted as a duckling’s mother.’ Adding, ‘At least you came back sober!’ Then, snidely, ‘Doesn’t the Prefect’s house have a wine cellar?’ And the final put-down: ‘Your wife’s been here, by the way.’

At least the Prefect was recovering. Rewarded with time off for this achievement, Gaius Vinius turned up, not at either of his wives’ homes but the Insula of the Muses at Plum Street. Where, so far, neither his fourth nor fifth wife knew he had an apartment.

Terror the dog was tied to a ring outside, so he could watch the world go by. He wagged his tail and let Gaius enter, without savaging his leg, then growled to show he would not let him leave.

Indoors, a couple of customers were having their hair styled by Lucilla and her girls. Gaius walked past this coven and into the kitchen. He made a drink: mulsum. The warm spiced concoction was everyone’s panacea, though a man in his disarray might need something stronger. He cooked even a drink in the male style; his method was adventurous and time-consuming, using as many utensils as possible, tasting frequently, admiring his own skill. He was so ambitious, he threw away the first panful as not meeting his high standards.

He carried a jug and two beakers into the workroom, where the clients were now having manicures from Glyke and Calliste. Silence fell. He squeezed through, aware of significant looks that passed between the women; he guessed Lucilla would be on the balcony. He closed the fold-up door for privacy.

‘It’s me.’

Lucilla nodded.

‘Pax?’

‘Pax Romana.’

‘I haven’t been myself.’

‘I bloody well hope not, Vinius! I wouldn’t like to think that’s what you have become.’

‘You were boorish yourself, woman.’

‘As you so rightly pointed out, I got divorced — it was a bad moment… I’ll forgive you if you forgive me.’

In daylight and sunshine, today they were just fellow-tenants. It was probably shaky but neutrality was reinstated between them.

For some time they sat side by side in silence. His mulsum was decent, though not as wonderful as Gaius believed. He gulped. Lucilla sipped hers, looking tired and drowsy.

At one point they both raised their beakers to salute old man Cretticus as he shuffled about down in his garden. They both sat back and put up their feet on the balustrade.

Eventually they heard movement indoors as the customers and girls left; Lucilla went out for polite farewells and, presumably, to take money. When she returned, Terror barged ahead of her; he threw himself on Gaius, putting heavy paws on his shoulders and licking him. Gaius petted the dog, though Lucilla must have seen him wrinkling his nose. Tended by hairdressers, Terror’s fur was combed, his skin oiled and ridiculously scented with floral lotions.

With the other women gone, a still afternoon descended. The only sounds now were birdsong and distant street noises. After Terror calmed down and just lolled on him, Gaius continued to rub the dog’s great neck for comfort.

‘Borrow him if you want. You’d love the Camp, wouldn’t you, Baby?

… What’s the matter, Vinius?’

‘I’m all right.’

‘You look as if you need to talk to someone.’

Dodging the real issues, Gaius described helping Rutilius Gallicus. ‘Confidentially.’ Rome knew the City Prefect was unwell, though not precisely how he was afflicted.

Succinctly but honestly, Gaius then reported his own troubles.

Assigned a reluctant role as his female friend and confidante, Lucilla listened. Gaius, who would unburden himself to nobody else, never considered how unfair it might be to discuss his personal life so intimately. He had known Lucilla for ten years. He reckoned he had permission to tell her everything. He could not decipher all she was thinking, but her veiled gaze added to the attraction. What man is not thrilled to have the attention of a woman who keeps her mystery?

‘What am I going to do?’

Lucilla said briskly, ‘You cannot be a bigamist. In Rome, marriage is defined as willing co-habitation by two people. You can only do it once. The second marriage automatically annuls the first.’

Gaius was impressed. ‘When did you train as a lawyer?’

‘Customer talk. If you don’t believe me, take proper legal advice.’

‘I can’t risk telling anyone. I would be informed on.’

‘You just told me.’

‘I trust you.’

‘Thanks!’ Lucilla sounded dry.

Gaius rasped a laugh: ‘The crazy thing is, anyone who tries to denounce me will come whispering to the very team of inquisitors I now collaborate with.’

He saw Lucilla frown. ‘Are you going to enjoy that work?’

‘No. But this is the Guards.’

‘You will need a clear head then. Stop overdoing the drink. Yes,’ Lucilla reproved him. ‘Members of your family are very concerned. Paulina had a word. For some reason people think you may listen to me.’

‘I do.’

‘Then stop being a barfly.’

‘I am dealing with it.’ Gaius poured them more mulsum; they both smiled.

‘All drunks say they are in control, but I agree you are strong-willed.’ Lucilla was presumably thinking, I ought to know. ‘Besides, wine is just your temporary refuge; it’s understandable. You never got over Dacia. Are you still sleeping badly?’

‘Bad memories.’ Gaius scowled. ‘I came home, assuming I had left it all behind, yet Dacia won’t loosen its grip on me. While I was there, the recurrent memory was something very different.’ Time to tell her. Time to open up. ‘We have never talked about what happened at Alba.’

Lucilla said nothing.

He stared out over the courtyard. ‘That was a special occasion and we both know it. Flavia Lucilla, you could sleep with the man of your heart a thousand times and only achieve such an experience once… Mind you,’ said Gaius, speaking ruefully for his own reasons, ‘you could have nine hundred and ninety-nine other attempts afterwards, with at least some hope…’ She did not smile. ‘I thought about you every day,’ he announced baldly.

‘I was worth it then?’ Lucilla’s voice was a whisper.

He turned back. She was sitting on his left, so it meant bringing his head right around to look at her. Graceful in a light flowered gown, with rows of fine neckchains hung from two enamelled shoulder brooches, she made his blowsy wife seem common and his respectable wife seem stiff.

His smile was sad, his voice intense: ‘Oh yes, you were worth it!’

Lucilla flushed. He reddened a little. Gaius prompted, ‘You could say the same about me?…’ Lucilla released a scathing puff of laughter, which he hoped meant her appreciation of him as a lover went without saying. ‘Still, not anymore,’ he confessed hoarsely, bursting out with it. ‘Dacia seems to have done for me.’

While Lucilla slowly grasped what he meant, Gaius writhed unhappily. He was innocently unaware that she was thinking he had two wives, a sympathetic commanding officer and a large family; it was unfair to burden her. Still he insisted: according to his fourth wife, when he came round after that first night in her squalid lair, he had significantly failed to function. ‘Apparently, I just cannot do it.’

Lucilla exhibited very little shock. Gaius would have been amazed how often impotence was a subject of conversation with hairdressers. ‘That must be enormously distressing for you.’

Gaius swallowed, unable to say more. Broken by the relief of sharing his trouble, he dropped his face into his hands, elbows on his knees, welling up in shame and misery.

He heard Lucilla’s chair scrape as she rose and came to him. Leaning down, she put her arms around him. He smelled her own perfume, plus echoes of other lotions she had been using in her work. As if held by his mother, he was enveloped in warmth and sympathy. Clearly there was no sensual element to this close embrace; even though Lucilla stroked his hair, her touch was professional. ‘This grey over your ears… I could darken it for you; still, it looks distinguished… You are a man who has lived. Gaius, living means suffering.’

When crouching became awkward, she loosed him and resumed her seat. Gaius had recovered his composure. ‘Time, Gaius. You will have to heal. Have you talked to a doctor?’

He flared up. ‘There is nothing wrong with me!’

Lucilla forbore comment on the contradiction. ‘Were you wounded?’

Gaius was still tetchy. ‘Why is that the first question women must ask?’ Onofria had done so. ‘No. Not in the groin. I was hit on the head.’

‘But might a head wound affect you?’

He exploded again: ‘I don’t use my brain — ’

Lucilla toughened up with him. ‘When fit, you used everything, including the wits you have thrown away today. Experience, observation, curiosity, ideas, responses…’ Alba again.

‘Hands, lips, breath, muscles, heart — but mostly the all-important dingle-dangle,’ groaned Gaius bitterly.

There was silence.

Lucilla braced up to the easier question. ‘Well you have to decide which you want. You can’t have two wives, one of them must go.’

‘Both.’

‘The loud Onofria and the quiet Caecilia?’

‘Both. Absolutely; both.’

‘Well Gaius, make this the last time you let your brothers boss you. Stop them pushing you around. Grow up. Take responsibility for your own life.’

Now it was the turn of Gaius Vinius to make a massive, unthinking mistake.

‘I know what I want — who I want. Get free of both these bloody nightmares and make a vacancy.’ He meant so well — for both of them. He said it so wrongly.

Lucilla was hearing unpleasant contempt in the way he spoke of Onofria and Caecilia, even though he just told her he had voluntarily made drunken promises to one and exchanged formal vows with the other. He sounded hard, coarse, a little crazy. For herself, she would never fear any harm from Vinius, yet she was glimpsing a changed man here; she understood it might be temporary but he was a man out of control, a man she did not like.

At Lucilla’s silence, he made matters even worse: ‘All right, I know I’m a mess. But you can excuse the battle flashbacks, the drunken nights, the dried-up sap… Here I am, darling. Battered, but now all yours.’

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.