Master and God

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 thought,’ 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!’

‘I like his Lucan poem.’

Gaius lowered his voice abruptly. ‘Well don’t say so publicly.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Don’t you know that Lucan and his Uncle Seneca were executed for involvement in that big conspiracy against Nero? The very plot that our recently exiled Epaphroditus once exposed? Piso was the ringleader and would-be replacement emperor, but a wide range of other people died for supporting him. Seriously, I am astonished that your poet friend associates himself with Lucan publicly. This is the equivalent of celebrating Brutus and Cassius. It is all too, too reminiscent of the kind of plot with daggers that Our Master and God thinks is aiming against him.’

‘Maybe Statius is a brave man.’

‘No, he was lured by the money, and just slipped up. He’ll be writhing with fright once he thinks about it properly.’

Gaius was obsessed with plots, plots and the history of imperial plotting. Although Lucilla knew he had an airy enjoyment of his work on the secret committee, she was in two minds about how it affected him. The only thing that saved him from complete commitment was his double-edged verdict on the mandarin Abascantus. Gaius judged him extremely clever, but found him subtly unreliable. Such mistrust was endemic in Domitian’s Rome.

Lucilla had owned up to something: ‘Gaius, you do realise I know Abascantus’ wife? Priscilla? She is a friend of Statius’ wife Claudia and has been a client of mine for years.’

‘So what’s the gen? Do you like her?’

‘She is not my favourite. Being in the height of fashion with the same hairstyle as the imperial ladies is all part of her plan to push Abascantus. She wants to look the part. He married up, quite a long way up — ’

‘The freedman’s ideal.’

‘Yes, I’m waiting to catch some consul’s eye myself, Gaius darling

… Priscilla seems to have decided to make Abascantus her life’s great project. His service to Domitian is a holy calling — I do so loathe that! Still, she has money and she tips well…’

‘He’s her second husband?’

‘Yes and she is significantly older. They seem a little odd together; I can never imagine them in bed. Theirs is one of those marriages where the couple work for the sole purpose of furthering the husband’s career.’

‘Vomit-making. When Domitian promoted Abascantus, Priscilla flung herself down like a human carpet and practically licked the floor at the Emperor’s feet, thanking him. I do wish people would stop doing that. It encourages his delusions.’

Lucilla smiled serenely. ‘Would you like me to kiss our Master’s tunic hem for you, darling?’

‘No! You know I try never to be noticed by the great.’

‘You have not done too badly then, Gaius.’

‘Yes, my father would be ecstatic.’

‘I think I’ll have a cameo carved to celebrate your glorious career. You will ride in a chariot with gambolling cupids, wearing your oakleaf wreath and looking shy of the attention. It will be titled, The Triumph of Diffidence.’

‘Have you kept my golden oakleaves?’

‘They are a swine to dust. But maybe one day the name Clodianus will be famous.’

‘If I thought that,’ said Gaius, with feeling, ‘it would really worry me!’

Lucilla was one of the first people who knew the wife of chief secretary Abascantus was ill. Hairdressers notice the health of their clients. Hair becomes lacklustre or even falls out, sometimes before any other symptoms of disease present themselves. Clients share bad news with their hairdressers too. Their special intimate relationship encourages people who would not normally open up to trust their stylist. It is understood that nothing said while the comb is plied will be passed on.

Priscilla needed a confidante. She shared her fears with Lucilla early on, yet she was concerned to keep the information from her husband for as long as possible. This was how they lived; his work for the Emperor was too important to be disrupted by anxiety for her. Domitian, of course, took Abascantus’ devotion for granted.

Priscilla was very ill. That quickly became obvious. Abascantus had to be informed. Although Priscilla had not previously been a favourite customer, Lucilla was upset by the situation. She tended Priscilla gently on her sickbed, making her more comfortable and tidying her when her ravaged appearance embarrassed her. Doctors came and went, but despite the very best attention it was clear there was no hope. Soon, Priscilla no longer wanted the fuss of being touched, though Lucilla continued to visit her.

When Priscilla died, Abascantus was with her. Lucilla witnessed the human side of what was supposed to be faceless bureaucracy. The man was devastated. He had lost the driving force of his life. Theirs had been a partnership where the husband was the public face, yet the powerful woman made decisions, kept him to the mark, gave him his energy and his will to prosper. While he worked late by lamplight, instead of sending slaves, Priscilla herself tiptoed in with refreshments — frugal snacks of course, because that was what Our Master and God himself liked.

Losing her, Abascantus was crushed.

A year later Statius wrote a poem of consolation, where he claimed the chief secretary had been so bereft he raved, threw himself upon his wife’s body, threatened suicide. Certainly when Gaius took Lucilla to the funeral they were both shocked by the extravagance of the cortege and the opulence of the tomb Abascantus provided, even though by that time the freedman was conducting himself with dignity.

Lucilla herself had been shaken by Priscilla’s death. It was by no means the first time she lost a customer but she was caught off guard. Gaius had accompanied her to the funeral to support her; he had some obligation to Abascantus as a member of his committee, but he would probably not have attended otherwise.

After seeing the flamboyant parade the freedman gave his wife, Lucilla muttered grimly, ‘I give it a year. You see; he will soon remarry.’

‘Men are all bastards, you think?’

‘No; he just won’t be able to bear being on his own.’

Lucilla and Gaius were at home by then. Struck by melancholy, she asked him, ‘What would you do, if you lost me? Would your grief be so outlandish?’

‘I would not show my heart to the world.’

‘No; you are very different.’

Lucilla knew Gaius would not stagily finger a sword blade, nor would he run to a high crag and threaten to jump off, as Abascantus was supposed to have done. Gaius did not issue ‘cries for help’ like Daily Gazette advertisements. He was sentimental but he either endured his feelings in private or got on logically and dealt with the problem. This was in part because he was a soldier, but it also derived from his character and heritage. Although Lucilla had never met his father, from what she had heard, Gaius was still influenced by that strong-willed tribune.

Nevertheless, Gaius showed unexpected sympathy for Abascantus. ‘I can see why he splashed out on myrrh and balsam, why all those expensive statues in the tomb and the elaborate funeral banquets. He must be thinking, what is the point of the money now she is gone? What was it striven for, if not to give them a good life together?… If I lost you, I would feel the same. I would send you off in style, my love, if it seemed the appropriate gesture — I know there are plenty of people who would want to mourn, and I would let them. But privately, I would never, ever be consoled.’

‘Would you take up with someone else?’

‘No.’

Lucilla doubted men’s claims; that was why she distrusted Abascantus’ exaggerated display. But she believed Gaius.

After Dacia, neither needed to ask the other question: how Lucilla would feel if she lost him. But she had been younger then, and not bound to him. When she curled up against him now and cried, it was more than her grief for Priscilla. It gave belated relief for the pain she still remembered. Gaius held her, comforting her, and as she clutched his hand against her cheek, he was again moved by her deep feelings.

For Abascantus, difficulties continued. It was reported that Priscilla’s last words had been to encourage his devoted service to Domitian. That must continue at all costs. The ethos of public service was to bury yourself in your work, solace in itself.

Once the freedman was able to return to his duties, Gaius expected to be called to a new meeting of the safety committee. When it failed to happen, he risked wary enquiries. To his surprise, he learned Abascantus was no longer in Rome. Domitian’s distrust of his freedmen had claimed another victim. The Emperor continued to work his way across the secretariats, replacing imperial servants with men of equestrian rank he had chosen himself. Now he had dismissed Abascantus.

The circumstances of any freedman’s banishment were by convention murky. There was only one reason a senior official was removed: embezzlement. Fraud need not have taken place. Even if the real reason was that his imperial master could not stand the sight of him, mishandling funds was a useful public excuse. It would be ungrateful to dismiss a freedman otherwise, someone born and bred to palace service, someone completely devoted to the Emperor. (Any emperor he was stuck with.) There had to be rules, all the more so in times of upset.

Otherwise, unless imperial bureaucrats became completely decrepit, they never expected to leave; their duty to the emperor was for life. That sometimes meant their life ended prematurely. Nero famously disposed of his predecessor’s chief minister, the legendary manipulator and plutocrat Narcissus, by making him go into exile ‘for his health’. Understood by everyone as an order to commit suicide, Narcissus swiftly took the hint.

So, Abascantus had unexpectedly retired. What, Gaius wondered, would happen to the committee now?

He went next door, intending to ask Casperius Aelianus. He had another surprise. The Prefect’s office was empty, his clerical staff moping in corridors, frightened and miserable about their futures. In the latest cull of officials, Domitian had also decided to terminate the ten-year unblemished career of his Praetorian Prefect. ‘My Emperor, right or wrong’ had failed to shield the commander from suspicion: he, too, had been dropped.

Casperius Aelianus went quietly. Keeping his dignity, he made no complaint. Prefects had been replaced before; he knew there was no stain on his record. Even so, he had been popular. Men were loyal to him. Around the Praetorian Camp the musty whiff of imperial ingratitude now hummed, as if there was a problem with the drains.

Gaius had known the man since his own release from Dacian captivity. He owed Casperius Aelianus his move to the headquarters staff. He found such a change without warning hurt like a kick in the guts. He was as loyal to the Emperor as the next Guard, but he reeled for a moment, uncertain where this left him.