Master and God

32

The following year Domitian awarded himself his seventeenth consulship. Statius wrote a poem.

Oh go on, surprise me!

I knew you would mock.

Grovelling bastard.

There were always two consuls. This was a Roman measure to avoid abuse of power, though it was incapable of curbing a deluded emperor. Once an annual appointment, there was a faster turnover nowadays to give promotion to more; one year, clearing a backlog, Domitian had appointed a bumper series of eleven. Hardly time to read the files before moving on.

Alongside him now in the position of honour, Domitian appointed his cousin Flavius Clemens, husband of Flavia Domitilla. Domitian’s own consulship was notional, a few days only, but Clemens was listed to serve until April. If Statius ever contemplated a poem to celebrate this public appointment, he thought better of it. For Clemens and Domitilla, it was the beginning of the end.

Lucilla became concerned. Whenever she visited, she could see Flavia Domitilla feared the consulship. She lost weight and became abstracted. From the moment the couple had been informed, when the list of consuls was published the previous autumn, Domitilla had believed they were fated. There was nothing they could do. Clemens could not refuse. No Roman turned down a consulship unless he was gravely ill, let alone when he was to hold the role at the same time as the Emperor. It was announced. It was inescapable. And it boded ill.

When Domitian became emperor fifteen years before, his first partner as consul had been Clemens’ elder brother, Flavius Sabinus. Keeping it in the family. That was the Flavian system, the way Vespasian and his own elder brother operated. Maybe Sabinus upset Domitian by his presumption he was the imperial heir. Perhaps he flaunted his hopes. He was the senior family member and events had not yet shown how dangerous Domitian could be. But Domitian executed Sabinus without offering a reason, immediately he gave up his post.

Later, Domitian repeated the pattern: Arrecinus Clemens, in-law of Titus and close to Julia: consul, then killed. Then Glabrio, allegedly impious and plotting revolution: first the honour, then lion-fighting, exile and death. Next, the stoics, Rusticus and the younger Helvidius: both consuls, both tried for treason and killed. Aelius Lamia, Domitia’s first husband: the same grim sequence.

Who would seek this supreme Roman honour now? Especially if Domitian could convince himself in his dark private ramblings that a consul had an eye on his throne?

Flavius Clemens would never put himself out to usurp. Unqualified for anything, he was despicably lazy. He had held no military or civic posts, content to enjoy his position as a fortunate member of the ruling family. He accepted the benefits without the responsibilities. It was a far cry from the Flavians’ origins, dedicating themselves to acquiring not just position and money, but honour. Vespasian and his brother Sabinus both seized every rank, packed with political energy and driven by a genuine belief that lifetime service to Rome was the highest goal.

Clemens accepted the status they won as his birthright. Vespasian and his brother would have been scathing. They would have shaken him up, too, in the way Domitian had been compelled to live with his father, in order to control inappropriate behaviour and to be trained in statecraft. Instead, as long as Lachne and Lara had served the family, as long as Lucilla herself had been associated with them, Clemens and his wife Domitilla had led an existence on the fringe of the imperial family that had little meaning or worth. They were only ever respected for who they were, never for anything Clemens achieved, for he achieved nothing.

Conversely, they did no harm. Flavia Domitilla, the daughter of Domitian’s long-dead sister, was pleasant and loved by those who knew her.

Lucilla had groomed this woman’s hair for over fifteen years now, weaving her coronets of curls since helping Lachne. Rank distanced them, yet tending Flavia Domitilla was a routine of her own existence. They exchanged little gifts at Saturnalia and on birthdays. They spoke frankly of ailments, Lucilla grumbling about the pains in her neck and shoulders that were a consequence of her profession with its frequent standing and working with raised arms. Saying she served the Emperor’s niece had undoubtedly helped Lucilla build her wider clientele.

Domitilla was now almost the only person Lucilla dealt with who had known Lachne and Lara. She would occasionally reminisce about them, a kindness which showed she understood their significance to Lucilla.

Lucilla knew the Flavians generally treated their women well. Vespasian’s mother and grandmother had brought status and money to the comparatively undistinguished provincial men they married. Both women had been astute and forthright. Vespasian had been partly brought up by his grandmother on her estate at Cosa on the north-west coast of Italy; everyone knew he had liked to return there. His mother was another strong character; she was said to have bullied him into public life when he showed reluctance. So, although their women seemed to stay in the background publicly, that was from choice. They were traditional. That had never meant subservient.

Domitilla was an only child. She had lost her mother when she was very young and whoever her father was, he faded from the scene or died too. Like her Uncle Domitian and Cousin Julia, she was brought up by others in the family. She saw no reason to treat her uncle deferentially, but sniffed at his grandiose ideas and deplored his conceit with eye-rolling glances.

It was inevitable Domitilla would be married early, and to another cousin, Clemens. Despite what people said about the repeated intermarriage of such close relations, she became the mother of seven children, for which in Roman society a woman was greatly honoured. After producing her third, the Augustan laws gave her the right to run her own affairs without a guardian although, as far as Lucilla could see, this made little difference in practice. She was never aware of Flavia Domitilla possessing estates of her own; if she did, her husband probably assumed nominal control but left everything to managers. Clothes and jewels were suitably abundant for a niece of the reigning emperor who appeared with him at court and in the imperial box at festivals. Her hair, of course, was immaculate. Lucilla’s bills for this were slow to be honoured, though she was eventually paid.

Even when the couple lived at the palace in association with Domitian, Flavia Domitilla had her own household. Her staff were loyal — as Lucilla herself was loyal — though sometimes snobbish. Tatia Baucylla, the hard-working nurse of the seven children, was prone to describing her charges as ‘the great-grandchildren of the Divine Vespasian’, adding much less proudly that Clemens was their father, and immediately reminding people that their mother was the Divine Vespasian’s granddaughter. Stephanus, the steward, called himself ‘freedman of Domitilla’. Lachne always did the same, Lucilla remembered. She was herself Domitilla’s freedwoman, come to that.

So, Flavia Domitilla was now in her mid-forties, discreetly menopausal, facing serious fears as Domitian turned his neurotic attention on her husband. She had never particularly enjoyed court life, preferring the country existence when the Flavians returned to their Sabine homes in the Apennines. True, they owned grand country villas set in well-run estates, but there they lived out Italian summers with long wooden tables set in the open air for relaxed family parties, while quarrel-free children scampered about under pine trees: rustic breads, earthy wines, simple cheeses, bountiful vegetables and fruits, wild honey. They enjoyed harvests and visits to local markets; hunting in the woods, truffle-seeking, river fishing; entertainment by travelling musicians and traditional dancers. Long sunny days followed by a good night’s sleep.

Lucilla had been on these vacations in her time, and much enjoyed them, although since she became lovers with Gaius, she tended to decline invitations so she could spend time with him.

Her closeness to Gaius had slightly distanced her from Flavia Domitilla, who accepted the change with knowing smiles, pleased for this lively young woman she had known from childhood, who was part of her own domestic history.

Gaius began that year with insecurities. Having two new Prefects rocketed into post like unpredictable comets caused tension; it was the first time he had gone through this since becoming cornicularius.

The newcomers had to settle down. They came up with ridiculous ideas for restructuring — not feasible in a legionary organisation, as their cornicularius had to point out gently. There was the usual talk of budget cuts, although any commissariat man could kill that dead using adroit threats to his superiors’ perks. Then they scrutinised the complement. All the senior officers became jumpy, in case they were to be weeded out. It came to nothing in most cases. The irritating bastards everyone else had hoped to lose clung on in their posts as irritating bastards always do.

One Prefect, Norbanus, was a dedicated Domitian supporter; he arrived here via the army route, after making his name during the Saturninus Revolt. He had taken troops from Raetia to aid Lappius Maximus in defeating Saturninus, earning himself Domitian’s gratitude and the reward of this prefecture. The other new man, Petronius Secundus, had risen through civil positions, including the prestigious post of Prefect of Egypt. It was unclear how well, if at all, the two men had known each other previously; there were signs they did not gel. That was the point of having two. While they jostled for supremacy, they were unlikely to acquire too much power at the expense of the Emperor. Nobody had ever forgotten how the brutal Sejanus tried to grab the throne from Tiberius.

Domitian must remember this: his favourite reading, perhaps his only reading nowadays, was Tiberius’ Memoirs, a book most people would place on the highest shelf of their library to gather dust. Gaius had a copy in his office; one of the scrolls had just the right flexibility to whack flies.

Petronius Secundus kept his head down at first. He let Norbanus lead. Gaius felt irritated, though not entirely surprised, when Norbanus had his personal secretary (a creepy hack who had come with him from Raetia) send a stiff little note in spidery writing to say it would be of value if the chief-of-staff dropped by for a review of his duties. For that, in the ludicrous way of public service, Gaius prepared career notes on himself.

He took his draft to Lucilla before he submitted it. She made him beef up the parts where he had shown bravery in the field.

He highlighted the Abascantus safety committee, because he knew that among his handover notes from Casperius Aelianus, Norbanus possessed a secret file on Preserving the Emperor. Gaius, who had drafted most of the file, had much entertainment outlining his own role, in the third-person narrative he conventionally used when briefing seniors: whether it would be cost-effective to remove Clodianus from his important work on granary records to be co-opted onto the safety committee, the verdict of the suitability assessment, plus exactly what security checks on Clodianus had revealed. He gave Clodianus the all-clear for loyalty.

When Gaius sauntered along, the Prefect was wearing his full uniform. He always did. Praetorian commanders were military and Norbanus enjoyed that. Guards judged a Prefect by whether, in the privacy of his quarters, he felt it necessary to retain formal marks of status or threw off his huge cloak with a groan of relief as anyone sensible did.

Norbanus had little to say about the cornicularius duties. He wanted to thrill himself sick with top secret subjects. ‘I noticed you mentioned Abascantus and his special group.’

‘Yes, sir. I hope it did not come across as flippant.’

Norbanus thought for a nerve-racking period. ‘No.’ He considered some more. He was a slow thinker. Gaius had learned to pace him. ‘No, I like your attitude.’

Gaius said nothing.

Norbanus suddenly produced a beaming smile that his officer distrusted. ‘So, Clodianus — this is a tricky one!’

Hades!

‘“Preserving the Emperor” — that’s what we’re all here for… What’s the mood at barracks level, tell me? Talking to cohort commanders, do I sense a dangerous yearning for change? Are any Guards wondering, at what point do we have to start making awkward decisions? What do you think? Have you noticed whispers?’

Shit! What change? What decisions? Surely the man was not making dangerous suggestions of a new regime?

The Prefect was staring directly at him, twitching up one hairy eyebrow in enquiry.

‘We take the Oath, sir.’

‘And the rest!’ Norbanus spoke low. ‘Our Master handed out a whacking bonus to secure the Praetorians, back when he became Emperor. Your curriculum shows you on the complement then, so you were one of the lucky ones.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That was fourteen years ago. If the term in service for a Guard is sixteen years — well, you see my thinking. The number who received the bonus must be dwindling fast. Do new boys feel the same obligation, in your opinion?’

‘They are proud to serve, sir.’ Gaius sounded like his father. They had got him at last.

Norbanus whistled. ‘Gods, you’re a cool one! I can see why they appointed you, Clodianus.’

Longing for this to be over, Gaius applied a cool man’s close expression. As a soldier he was good at it.

‘Well, I want you to keep attending this committee. Watch what they are up to and report back to me personally.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I don’t entirely trust these freedmen — load of funny buggers wearing fancy necklaces. I weep no tears for the loss of Abascantus.’

‘No, sir. By the way, sir; with Abascantus packed off, I have been wondering who I should liaise with instead?’

‘Parthenius!’ Norbanus announced. ‘Don’t ask me how they fixed it up between them, but Parthenius is your man now.’

Gaius went so far as to raise his eyebrows. ‘The chamberlain? Doesn’t he spend his life counting pillowcases?’ He could not envisage it working, but until he had the measure of this change, he decided not to protest. The chamberlain shadowed the Emperor and controlled his visitors, so it could be appropriate.

‘Well, the same aim applies. The Emperor’s safety is paramount. That will always have my personal attention. Now Clodianus, this briefing is absolutely confidential — just between ourselves.’ Norbanus addressed him in the manner of a slightly sinister uncle. ‘I don’t need to tell you that if anything goes off, it is absolutely essential the Guards nip trouble in the bud. Vigilance! We need absolute vigilance.’

‘Absolutely!’ Gaius knew how to pick up jargon. ‘Just one query, Prefect. On the safety issue, do you know the position of Petronius Secundus?’

Norbanus looked guarded. ‘He has his own ideas. I am sure we can count on him.’ So he viewed Secundus as treacherous. ‘I don’t want you to feel inhibited. Any problems, come to me.’

‘Jolly good, sir!’

‘My door is always open.’

It was closed at the moment so nobody could overhear Norbanus insinuating disloyalty in his fellow Prefect.

Once Norbanus had meddled enough to establish himself, Secundus started his own exercise. Gaius monitored the interplay between them as a kind of scientific experiment for an encyclopaedia, a section with insects.

Secundus decided to emerge from his chrysalis and interview all his cohort tribunes about their careers: he called this ‘the personal touch’. To anyone who had been in the army twenty years the phenomenon was well known. The cornicularius patiently took charge of the diary to book in the ten tribunes for their little chats, then he produced helpful briefing notes on each man’s history. Straightforward stuff. It was no different from when, in the vigiles, he had sent a criminal to the City Prefect, appearing to ask for advice on the case but giving a strong steer on what the culprit had done and how to punish him. He gained a few drinks out of this exercise, as the more astute tribunes tried to influence what he said about them.

He could have landed one or two of them in it, had he been that type. Which they must hope he wasn’t.

Of course not.

He watched them return from their interviews, seeing who looked deflated and who swaggered. One or two would receive their discharge diploma quicker than they had expected; Gaius, who gave instructions to the calligrapher who incised the tablets, had already set this in motion. The Prefect’s exercise was excellent man-management, although like most such party games it severely unsettled the men who were being managed, even those who survived the process. Although there was never any suggestion Domitian know about it, this was just the kind of mental cruelty the Emperor himself enjoyed.

Gaius had to submit to the ‘personal touch’ himself. Secundus set him at his ease — always embarrassing for both parties. The Prefect plodded through various aspects of his work as cornicularius. Ever thoughtful, Gaius had prepared a list for him, to smooth this process.

The truth was, little needed attention or alteration. The office was well run. There were few complaints; most of those could be discounted. A decent commissariat made for a smooth-running corps. Secundus knew he had a good chief-of-staff, who was abreast of everything. The Guards were fine. Of course Gaius had already established this with Norbanus.

‘Excellent!’

‘Thank you, Prefect!’

They had reached the moment that always happened in interviews, when the discreet Clodianus had to decide exactly when to pick up his note tablets and slide out of the office. Sometimes — and his antennae prickled that this was one of those occasions — he had to stay for a stiff period of informality. The tone would lighten up. A Prefect would discuss the Games, the weather, or even mild anxieties about his children; a particularly jolly incumbent would have a laugh about any sex scandals which involved children of absent colleagues (though most thought it bad form to openly libel their equals in rank). According to tradition, there was a possibility Secundus would produce his set of wine glasses, while a previously unseen slave would pop out with wine to put in them.

Last Saturnalia, with Casperius Aelianus, there had even been a bowl of olives. Since Gaius had to stock the Prefects’ refreshments cupboard, he had made sure they were Colymbadian, and whenever he was at a meeting where tuck came out, he took home the leftovers. Such are the quiet rewards of honest public servants.

Today neither the glasses nor the slavey turned up. They had hit the friendly part, but had not finished business.

Gaius had thought this time he was getting away without mentioning the safety committee. Secundus left his big throne-like chair and flopped in a more comfortable seat. As he placed his boots on a low table to indicate they could relax, he brought up the subject after all. Gaius picked at a thumbnail despondently.

Secundus suddenly remembered the etiquette. ‘Time for a noggin, yes?’ He plonked his boots back on the floor, jumped up, went to a cupboard and now did produce glasses. They were enormous greenish tumblers, with cheery skeletons advising, ‘ Drink, for tomorrow we die ’. He burrowed in the wine stash without involving a slave.

He came back, arranged stuff on the low table between them, poured. They raised glasses. It was excellent wine. Prefects always brought their own in because they wanted a decent vintage; with the best will in the world a military negotiator could not afford quality, else Treasury Audit dug in their heels. Gaius had had to explain this tactfully when the two new Prefects were appointed. It was about the third point down in some Guidance Notes for Induction of New Commanders that he had inherited from predecessors. Where the first point was telling the incumbents why their offices were not big enough and the second was pointing out which latrine was specially reserved for their use. For them — and for Gaius, when he knew they were out of camp.

Petronius Secundus regarded him with a wry expression. ‘Well!.. Delicate, is it not?’ He did not mean his wine.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I don’t have to remind you, anything said in this office stays here.’ Gaius gave a twist of his head, the universal sign; Secundus could feel happy that in no circumstances would his colleague Norbanus hear what they had said. ‘You worked with Abascantus, so you understand what he was trying to do.’

Gaius sipped like a girl. Wine on an empty stomach, together with a feeling that the discussion was escaping him, made him moderate his input.

‘I assume you approve, Clodianus?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, let’s be open about all this. The Abascantus initiative continues and I believe our involvement needs to continue with it. Either the Guards can limit their service to a simple role as bodyguards, or we aim for the survival of Rome. Are you with me?’ he checked again.

‘I think so, sir.’ Gaius was always amazed how much a chief-of-staff was taken into his superiors’ confidence.

‘The days of an armed insurrection are past.’

Luckily Gaius had just swallowed, so he did not splutter his wine. Now he knew that the so-called career discussions Secundus had been holding had a specific purpose: to sound out his officers’ opinions, in preparation for a coup.

When Secundus was frank, he pushed the boat out: ‘It may have worked for Caligula, but trapping Our Master and God in a tunnel with a bloody stabbing organised by us is just not on.’

‘Really, sir?’

‘The field army love him far too much. He has endeared himself to the troops by his personal presence on the Rhine and Danube. An uprising back home would be very unpopular. The legions would never wear it.’ Gaius had to remind himself this man came up by the civil route; his colleague Norbanus would not have spoken so regretfully about the army. And ‘an uprising at home’ must mean, by the Praetorians. ‘There would be civil war throughout the Empire all over again; we had enough of that in the Year of the Four Emperors. What is necessary now is a smooth transfer of power. As I see it — ’ Secundus paused.

‘Hypothetically?’ Gaius prompted. He was always considerate.

‘Oh good man! All of this is sub rosa. You know the risks. Anybody asks us, we both deny everything… Clearly, any move would necessitate the Senate, the Guards and the imperial staff all working together. In this scenario, you realise, the Guards’ role would be background support.’

‘We won’t do anything, but if somebody else tries it we refrain from intervention?’ Gaius felt he had abruptly ended up with his toes on the edge of a very deep trench; he was struggling to hold his balance, about to topple forwards and fall in.

‘A bugger, isn’t it?’ Secundus asked confidingly. He drained his glass in one relieved gulp. ‘Well, I’m glad we had this little chat. Just wanted you to know, any problems, anything at all, my door is always open.’

Gaius could now extract himself. He stood up to leave. ‘We all know we can rely on you,’ smiled the Prefect. ‘Your watching brief is vital. You won’t let us down, I know.’

Gaius reached the door. He turned back. ‘Just one query, sir, if you don’t mind. How do you see the position of your colleague Norbanus?’

‘Good question! Could be tricky. Don’t worry; no hiccup. If and when things ever kick off, you can leave Norbanus to me.’

‘Good to know that, sir.’

Jupiter Optimus bloody Maximus!

Gaius walked next door to his own office. A couple of clerks looked up, but read his expression and decided not to engage with him.

There was one rather unpleasant possibility, as Gaius was fully aware: his conversations with Norbanus and Secundus could be a cheat. Perhaps one, or both, was attempting to draw out their chief-of-staff’s opinions in order to report him for treason.

That was how people thought in Rome. Domitian had had that dire effect.

He went into his private area, where he sat sweating for some time. You worked with Abascantus, so you understand what he was trying to do…

He had been a fool. He had entirely missed the point.

Even while Petronius Secundus hedged and hinted about a transfer of power, the cornicularius had quaked at the implications. There was a plot. Officials were themselves running it. Everyone who mattered was supposed to know all about it already. Even people like Norbanus, who was unsympathetic and had not been invited, suspected what was going on. Of course it was not signalled. Nobody was going to have a big sign up on his door saying ‘Conspirators, Enquire Within’, were they?

Now as Gaius pondered in amazement, he saw that the Abascantus ‘initiative’ was extremely clever — no less devious than he would expect. No one became a disgraced civil servant without expertise in double-dealing. It was simple. All the safety committee members, other than him, were insiders. They were hidden from notice by meeting in plain sight. The people being canvassed for support were a much wider group than had turned up at meetings to munch almond biscuits. The Senate, the Guards and the staff… Most of Rome, apparently.

As for him, Abascantus had requested someone from the Guards, and Casperius Aelianus, a loyalist and a man who had missed the point, just sent along someone who enjoyed bureaucracy. Now Norbanus assumed Gaius was spying; Secundus assumed Gaius was plotting. Jupiter, what was he supposed to do?

Abascantus made him nervous: there could be a reason why Abascantus was so suddenly dismissed. Some whisper had reached the Emperor. That was seriously bad news for everyone involved. Even poor idiots like Gaius who had had no idea of anything.

Still, he knew now. Now he would have to make choices. Either he went along with this, or he must do what he had thought he was there for in the first place: observe the conspirators — the real ones — and eventually report on them. At least he had two different superiors assuring him he was their man. That ought to guarantee protection!

Once again in his life Vinius Clodianus felt that other people were pushing him into something. He had acquired a dangerous level of involvement without even understanding that.

He knew how things worked; if people were exposed for plotting, he would probably go down with them.

When he talked it all through with Lucilla at home, he managed to convince himself that until an assassination attempt was imminent, which might be never, this could not be problematical. But he felt dispirited. Nothing was clear-cut, and to Gaius that meant there was a very high chance all this would go wrong.

If he needed reassurance, it came in the absence of action from Parthenius. If the banished Abascantus really had passed a torch to the chamberlain, Parthenius must have immediately doused it. Nothing happened. There were no further meetings.

Domitian meanwhile grew more unpredictable. Nobody knew the rules. People were lazy and wanted no trouble. They would knuckle under to any system, even bad ones, provided they could understand what was expected of them. With a ruler who was mentally disturbed, quiet periods lulled them into hoping everything had settled down, but then he offended them with some new outrage. They could not even rely on previous behaviour as an index. He would go back on himself, reviewing past incidents and reaching newly disturbing conclusions. It left everyone hysterical.

A case in point was Epaphroditus. Epaphroditus had not only survived being close to Nero, Domitian too had accepted him as a secretary for years. When he suddenly banished the man, that was perturbing. Now he brooded again and suddenly recalled Epaphroditus from exile. As the freedman hobbled back to Rome, it was nearly three decades since his first master Nero committed suicide. Everyone knew that Epaphroditus helping him had been at the cowardly Nero’s own request. A loyal act, simple compassion.

That did not stop Domitian deciding he would now make an example of his elderly secretary. He wanted others to see that causing the death of an emperor, even if he asked you, was a crime.

Epaphroditus was executed.

Worse followed. Domitian suddenly turned on Flavius Clemens. Even before his cousin’s consulship ended in April, there was a mysterious charge of ‘atheism’. Clemens and Domitilla were said to have engaged in ‘Jewish practices’. What these practices were remained obscure. When Vespasian and Titus returned from their conquest of Judaea they had brought many Jewish prisoners, so some of the war booty slaves may have ended up in the Clemens household; if so, none were specifically accused of converting their master. Christians, too, would subsequently claim the couple as saints, yet there was no evidence there either.

The nebulous charge seemed to derive from Domitian’s own twisted imagination. Families tend to speak their minds. Perhaps at some private family occasion his cousins had scoffed at Domitian’s interpretation of himself as a god on earth. To them he was just a very tedious relative. Whatever Flavius Clemens did, or whether his mere existence as a potential rival coloured Domitian’s fears, the usual men with swords arrived one day, and that was the end of him.

As soon as Lucilla heard, she rushed to Flavia Domitilla. Although the poor woman had been living in dread for months, Lucilla found her in a complete daze. The couple had been married over thirty years. There was no trial; there had been no time to get used to the possibility of losing her husband. This was hideous, far worse than illness or a fatal accident.

There would be no public funeral. Certainly no interment in the great new Flavian mausoleum that had once been Clemens’ family home. Arrangements had to be scrimped and secretly conducted; Domitilla’s steward, Stephanus, arranged it.

Domitilla had nobody to turn to. A woman who lost her husband ought to rely on family support, but Domitian was now her only adult male relative; he was also her terrifying enemy.

Domitilla’s household staff were appalled. They clustered around her, most in tears. She was not condemned to death, but the Emperor had ordered that she should be taken from Rome to exile on the Island of Pandateria. Anyone who thought about it realised he could still change his mind and give worse orders. Even if not, Pandateria had a terrible reputation.

While hasty preparations for this unsought journey were made by distraught slaves, Domitilla gave tremulous instructions for the welfare of her children, whom she had to leave. She was given no time even to explain the situation to them. No one could guess what fate lay ahead for the two sons Domitian had previously named as his heirs, though it seemed unlikely he would continue to view them in any friendly light. They and the five other distressed children were orphans in a harsh world. No one who feared Domitian would dare to show them kindness.

Coming from outside, Flavia Lucilla had a clearer head than many. She discovered that although her heart was racing, she could stay calm in an emergency. She buckled to, helping Stephanus make rushed arrangements. An escort of soldiers arrived, while Lucilla was comforting her patroness; they were from the Urban Cohorts, none of them men she recognised. They were fairly polite, all awkward at having to give orders to an imperial lady, but there was underlying menace.

A small group could travel with Domitilla to the coast. Stephanus insisted on going. A couple of hastily selected maids were taken. When the party set off, Domitilla seemed to welcome Lucilla’s presence, so she volunteered to go too. She had not thought about this in advance. She had no time to notify Gaius properly, though she sent him a message, keeping it vague so as not to implicate him in Domitilla’s disgrace.

The journey to the coast took a couple of days, although the troops hurried them. Pandateria was a tiny volcanic island thirty miles off the fashionable Bay of Naples resorts of Baiae and Cumae. This remote dot in the Tyrrhenian Sea had long been a favourite location for imprisoning disgraced imperial women. The island hosted several of the Julio-Claudian family, some of whom had died there of deliberate starvation; others had been sent surprise executioners. Hardly any survived to leave. Few ships called there. The inhabitants must be accustomed to seeing themselves as jailers, jailers from whom cruelty would be welcomed by the authorities. Flavia Domitilla could only view her lonely incarceration with horror.

She was to be transferred to the inhospitable caldera by a navy ship from the fleet at Puteoli; its oars were already manned in readiness. Stephanus was forbidden to accompany her. The loyal freedman tried to insist but was dragged back. As distraught farewells were said on the quayside, Lucilla was horrified that only pallid little slaves were to be companions for their mistress. She herself abruptly offered to continue to the island. She meant it; nevertheless she was relieved when Domitilla turned her down, telling her to enjoy her life instead. So they parted.

Flavia Domitilla looked suddenly older. Despite her pampered prior existence, during the journey to Puteoli her face had acquired the lines of an elderly woman; even her hair, simply wound by Lucilla in an old-fashioned style today, seemed to have greyed, thinned and faded. Though widowed and torn from her children, she was still the granddaughter of the Divine Vespasian; she walked unaided up a narrow gangplank to be received by a naval captain who looked shamefaced. She spoke to him graciously. She never looked back.

Lucilla waited with Stephanus on the quay until the ship had sailed out to sea so far they could no longer see it. Even when travellers are expected to return, the slow dwindling of a vessel into the far distance is a mournful sight. Lucilla knew she would never see Flavia Domitilla again.

On their journey together back to Rome she and Stephanus spoke little. They were both raging at the injustice, but under Domitian no one openly showed such feelings if they wanted to survive. By the time they reached Rome, nonetheless, they had a shared understanding.

Hurrying to Plum Street, even though it was late, Lucilla could tell Gaius was at home. They normally slept in her bed, but she found him in his old room, with the dog on his feet, forcing him to curl up. She crept into bed behind him. Gaius greeted her only with a bad-tempered grunt and did not turn around.

Pressing her face between his shoulder-blades, Lucilla murmured pleas against his unresponsive back. ‘I am sorry. Please don’t be angry. I was her freedwoman. I discovered that it meant something.’

Gaius, a free citizen from birth, had spent the best part of a week depressed. He knew freed slaves had an obligation, but until now its importance to Lucilla had escaped him. He was jealous, he knew it. Lucilla heard his misery: ‘I thought you had left me.’

‘Don’t; please don’t upset yourself. I am here. I would have gone as her companion,’ Lucilla admitted. ‘But she knew you had a claim on me. I am so glad she said no. I wanted to come home to you.’

Gaius pushed the dog off the bed with the flats of his feet so he could stretch out and turn round. He hauled Lucilla into his embrace. ‘Oh gods, am I glad to have you back…!’ He was warm-bodied and warm-hearted; despite the scare she had given him, he remained deeply affectionate.

‘It’s over. She is gone, Gaius. I know she will die there. She will never be allowed home. He means her to die. They will neglect her, and probably starve her, and because she has no hope she will surrender to her fate. That is how he wants it. So he does not have to see what happens, and can shed all responsibility.’

Gaius wrapped himself around her until she felt like a kernel, safe in its nut. ‘There; let it out. You need to cry.’

Lucilla took his comfort but she said, ‘I have not shed one tear since I watched her sail away. I am too angry.’

Gaius was silent. He recognised that she had changed. He saw that he could indeed lose her — though of all the wild doubts he had ever harboured, losing Lucilla would not be in any way he had dreamed. No other man would lure her, nor would she tire of him. Even her long exposure to poets, teachers and philosophers had not achieved this. Flavia Lucilla had joined the opposition to Domitian.

‘It has to end.’ Lucilla’s voice was quiet, her tone stripped, her mood fatalistic. ‘People must do something. Whatever it takes, he will have to be stopped.’