Master and God

34

On the first of September new consuls were sworn in.

The conspiracy revived. They had considered the mid-year consuls unsympathetic to their aims: one with a military background had worked with Domitian closely in Pannonia, and another came from Reate, Vespasian’s birthplace, the Flavian heartland whose politicians were intensely cliquey. Both men looked dangerous to the plotters. With two powerful consuls against them, they felt stymied.

Those consuls were replaced for the last four months of the year by Calpurnius, whom nobody knew much about although they knew nothing against him, and a much healthier prospect: Caesius Fronto. He was the son or adopted son of the famous lawyer and senator, Silius Italicus, who was now swelling the ranks of retired poets in Campania; Italicus was writing an epic about the Carthaginian war, a work which was bound to involve reminiscing about the good old days when politicians had sanity and integrity. He came from Patavium, birthplace of the martyred philosopher Thrasea Paetus; this town had produced many members of the stoic opposition, men who tended to meet and collaborate when they went to Rome.

The son, Fronto, mingled with those men, held the same views and was, like others before him, awarded a consulship by Domitian to mitigate his hostility. Parthenius believed in Fronto as his ideal controller of the Senate if the plot went ahead.

That finally seemed likely. Flavia Domitilla’s steward Stephanus suddenly learned he was accused of theft. Everyone knew what that meant. He was next up for banishment, if not execution. He approached Parthenius and offered to carry out Domitian’s murder.

Stephanus looked suitable. So far, he still worked at the palace, so he could get close to the Emperor. Stephanus was angry enough and strong enough. He still raged at the injustice to his mistress and her family; he loathed Domitian. With both career and life under threat, Stephanus had nothing to lose. They would have to act fast though, because of the theft accusations. Delay only increased the chance of discovery.

Domitian was in Rome. That was what they wanted. He was officiating at the Roman Games which, ironically, began on the fourth of September, an extra day that had been added in honour of the murdered Julius Caesar. The Roman Games ran for over two weeks, until the nineteenth; on the thirteenth, the September Ides, fell the important anniversary of the founding of the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter, which Domitian would obviously want to honour. By coincidence, Titus had died on the Ides of September, so the fourteenth, which by another grim coincidence was traditionally a black day in the calendar, had become Domitian’s own anniversary as Emperor. So he had a lot to celebrate — while others were also thinking about his anniversary and evaluating his reign bleakly.

The period of the Roman Games would be their last chance. Insiders knew that as soon as these Games ended, he would slip away. An enormous expeditionary force of five legions plus auxiliaries had been assembled for the next war on the Danube. Domitian had been closely involved in planning and he intended to go. Militarily, time was tight. Even if he dashed off straight after the Games ended, he could not arrive in Pannonia until the start of October; that allowed a maximum of six weeks before winter set in and campaigning had to end. An initial excursion across the Danube had in fact already started, under an experienced commander called Pompeius Longinus, who had years of frontier service.

That could be helpful. Once Longinus committed troops, he was unlikely to pull them back even if he heard that the Emperor had died. The Danube army was the dangerous one for the plotters, so it was good to have it tied up in an active campaign. The legions in Britain and the east were tricky, but hopefully too far away to cause trouble.

They still had no candidate to replace Domitian. Their objective of a smooth transfer of power depended on producing someone who would be willing and acceptable. Frantic manoeuvring began.

The Games, with their bustle and socialising, provided good cover. They were triumphal, beginning with a parade, then dancing, boxing, athletics and drama; the finale was four days of chariot races in the Circus Maximus, which the Emperor was currently repairing after fire damage. Domitian would watch from his splendid new viewing gallery on the Palatine, which dominated the great southern bulwark side of the imperial palace, right above the Circus. As fire-walkers and rope-dancers entertained vast crowds, amidst the constant scent of flowers, smoke, donkey shit and street food, everyone important was conveniently in Rome. Associates could meet and mutter, without causing suspicion. Canvassing went ahead apace.

One after another, the most prominent men said no. Intriguingly, none reported the plot to Domitian.

No one, said Domitian, ever believed in plots until the victim was dead. He believed. He was all too superstitious. He felt convinced people were out to get him — a reasonable fear since it was true.

To the agonised Emperor, Rome became full of portents. He had dedicated the new year to the care of the Goddess of Fortune but the omens were dreadful. That summer, lightning struck several monuments, among them the Temple of the Flavians, the Temple of Jupiter and the new palace; a flash damaged Domitian’s bedroom, which he took as particularly significant. Had the Emperor not been so insanely superstitious, no one would have thought anything of all this. It was approaching the autumnal equinox. The Mediterranean often had thunderous storms. Flurries of severe weather came up suddenly, passed quickly, left the air fresher.

Astrologers prophesied when the Emperor would die; they knew his fixation. He had such black thoughts, they could safely make such forecasts, even though producing imperial horoscopes was illegal. If nothing happened on the day they named, their predictions would be quickly forgotten, especially by Domitian. Anyway, he believed that if he knew in advance what was planned for him, as a clever schemer he could outwit the fates. To prove it, he challenged one prognosticator to foretell his own death; on hearing it would be soon, and that the man expected to be torn apart by dogs, Domitian crisply had him killed and arranged for his funeral to be conducted very carefully.

A storm blew up and scattered the pyre; dogs did descend on the half-burned corpse, and Domitian’s informer, the actor Latinus, unhelpfully told him.

During this crazy period, Gaius found himself summoned to attend at the palace with Norbanus, the more loyal Praetorian Prefect. From what he heard and saw, he became horrified that the plot was on the verge of being exposed.

Domitian would still go for walks, brooding bleakly on the danger he was in. His latest extravagance was to have huge plaques of moonstone set up, polished mirror-bright, so he could see if anyone crept up behind. Gaius reflected tetchily that there was a beautiful, completely private garden where the Emperor could have walked instead in perfect safety.

Domitian was defying danger. If the danger was real, this was bloody stupid.

Norbanus and Clodianus accompanied the Emperor as ordered. It was a fitful stroll. Domitian paced in short, agitated spurts, gaining no benefit from the exercise. He never relaxed; he was tight with anxiety.

The fragments of conversation Gaius managed to overhear as the Emperor and the Prefect marched up and down ahead of him confirmed everything that was said about Domitian: he was secretive and treacherous, he was crafty and vindictive. He must have got wind of something. He was excitedly giving the Prefect orders about senators. Gaius recognised several; these men were on the plotters’ list to canvass as replacement emperors. They had said no. Despite that, Norbanus was being told to eliminate them.

‘Clodianus!’

The Prefect gesticulated for his officer to approach. It was the first time for years he had been up so close to his master. They were two feet apart: Domitian with his glorious purple robe stretched taut over the chunky Flavian paunch, Clodianus tall and strong in his red tunic, expression clear despite his nerves. Perhaps he imagined it, but that oddly curved lip of Domitian’s seemed more pronounced, the backward tilt of the head ever more peculiar.

For the soldier, there now began the most difficult conversation of his life. Domitian demanded a report on the secret committee. He wanted details. Who attended? How had they contributed? Which seemed untrustworthy? What signs had been observed that they aimed at his destruction? Names were put directly to the cornicularius. Domitian fired them off: names Clodianus knew, names he knew for certain were innocent, even names he had never heard of. The catalogue astonished him. Half the Senate and large numbers of imperial freedmen seemed to be under suspicion. Domitian had picked these out for himself as people who were against him, faces he was about to have arrested.

The cornicularius assumed a boot-faced, solid attitude, still trying to reconcile his duty with his inclinations. He was giving nothing important away, yet his act must be unconvincing. Norbanus shot him filthy looks and although Domitian apparently took it all in without resistance, Gaius felt queasy.

Quite suddenly, his interrogation ended.

The Emperor gave him a long, hostile, knowing stare. Domitian did not say this time, I know that man! Nor did Vinius Clodianus mention their past encounters. The cornicularius had failed his test.

There was no recognition that this was the soldier who had saved the priest and sympathised with Domitian on the Capitol all those years before, a Praetorian Guard with long years of steady service, the prisoner whose suffering in Dacia had so shocked his master. Anyone else built up trust through shared experience; for the Emperor, the past was irrelevant. With his flawed temperament, Domitian only lived for the suspicions of the moment.

Domitian was convinced the Guard had betrayed him. But Clodianus had been true so far. Once the Emperor discounted his whole career of loyal service, everything changed. He swore the oath and took the money. But he had remained his own man. Themison had diagnosed it: to be constantly under suspicion while innocent may exasperate his associates until they do turn against him. Those who love him will feel rejected…

He understood that look in Domitian’s eyes. He knew what all those men must have gone through, those the Emperor invited into cosy confabulations at the same time as turning against them. Now he stood in danger himself. A cornicularius, with access to the entire Praetorian budget, could easily be accused of mishandling funds, for example. He, Vinius Clodianus, was in line for some harsh accusation of misdemeanour; for disgrace, exile, even death. Untrue; unjust. But impossible to refute, even if opportunity was given — which would not happen.

‘I want a list.’

‘Of course.’ A commissariat man knew always to agree; in his own time he could ignore instructions. ‘ Domine. ’ He meekly said ‘Master’ — but he would not call Domitian ‘God’.

What kind of list? This was the nub of the problem. Brooding intently, Domitian would not specify. He thought anyone loyal ought to know what was needed; to force their response was a good trial of their honesty. He did not care what they told him; he made up his own mind anyway. Any list would do. Any names would answer. The list need not be complete, it need not be relevant or truthful, it just had to provide him with his next victims. Confirm his suspicions. Validate his fear.

After a curt dismissal, the unhappy cornicularius marched off. He felt the Emperor follow him with another baleful stare. Norbanus remained behind, probably so Domitian could order him to discipline and destroy Clodianus. One of the slaves who assembled within call slipped past. Domitian had asked for a note tablet. He would make his own list.

That stare said Vinius Clodianus would be on it.

Domitian believed that he would die on September the eighteenth, at the fifth hour.

The previous day, someone gave him a gift of apples; he ordered them to be served tomorrow, saying darkly, ‘If I am spared!’

‘He is like some miserable uncle that nobody wants to sit beside at Saturnalia!’ Lucilla complained to Gaius. As Gaius remarked, at least it gave the conspirators a diary date.

‘The last day to choose is when he expects it,’ Lucilla demurred. Gaius smiled quietly. He was abstracted, still burdened by that meeting with Domitian, anxious for himself, more anxious for Lucilla. ‘Oh Gaius, surely we must hope to catch him by surprise!’

‘If he anticipates an attack, he may accept it. “ This is the prophecy, your time has come, give up now. ” Then killing him becomes much easier.’

Gaius thought the inexperienced Stephanus would falter. Stephanus might look strong, but a palace freedman had no martial training. They had brought in a gladiator to instruct him in basic attack moves. Parthenius produced one of Domitian’s own professionals, who helped them in return for the promise of freedom and presumably a large cash payment. Gaius never knew the fighter’s name. He had no great faith in what the gladiator could achieve with Stephanus in just a few days of secret working out.

Stephanus had bandaged his forearm as if he had some injury. He wore an obvious sling, like a hypochondriac, walking about the palace that way until everyone had seen him. By the end of a week, the Guards grew bored with searching him for concealed weapons. That was when Stephanus hid a dagger under the bandages.

When Gaius confessed his fears that Domitian was composing written details of the plot, Lucilla decided to do something; she pretended she had to see the Empress.

Domitia Longina rarely asked for her these days, not since Flavia Domitilla was exiled; the Empress was probably afraid Lucilla would want her to beg Domitian to let his niece return. Lucilla would not waste her breath. As far as she knew, Domitia had never once tried to influence a political decision.

Lucilla guessed where Domitian would be keeping his notes. Like innocent children, emperors tucked secret things under the pillows in their bedrooms. At the palace, she used her skills. She made friends with one of the naked boys who flitted about the court, generally up to mischief. She sent him in to look. Rather than be spotted lurking suspiciously, she told the lad she would come back for anything he found, after she had paid her respects to their imperial mistress.

When she entered the room, everyone was discussing Domitian’s fears for tomorrow. Apparently, he kept exclaiming dramatically, ‘There will be blood on the moon in Aquarius!’ Domitia retorted, in that case she would make sure she was away seeing friends.

The Empress allowed Lucilla to kiss the rouged regal cheek, then Lucilla began inspecting what Domitia’s maids had done to her hair, tweaking her coronet fussily.

‘You look pregnant! Do you know whose it is?’

‘Yes, Madam. He will be a good father.’

‘Well, that’s lucky.’

The inevitable happened. The boy had found Domitian’s note tablet. He brought it to Lucilla. Domitia spotted him. She demanded the tablet. She read it.

Holding up a mirror behind the Empress’s head, Lucilla craned to look over her shoulder. There, in Domitian’s fervent handwriting were packed columns of names, some of them accurate.

Domitia was silent for a long moment. Expensive jewels rose and fell with her strained breathing. She slammed shut the double-sided note tablet, almost crushing her own fingers with their burden of heavy antique rings.

‘The appalling little thief has no idea what this contains. Luckily I was shown it.’ She grasped the tablet firmly. Standing beside her chair, Lucilla stayed motionless, expecting the worst.

The Empress turned her head and looked straight at her. Domitia Longina of the compressed lips and uncompromising attitude murmured scornfully, ‘He will not be deterred by losing a few notes!’ Then, as if to herself: ‘These people need to hurry up, if they really mean business.’ Suddenly she passed the note tablet across. ‘Flavia Lucilla! Your man is a Praetorian?’ She seemed bored now. ‘Show this to him, will you? I presume he will know what to do about it.’

Astonished, Lucilla nodded faintly. Domitia turned immediately to someone else, closing her association with the tablet.

The Empress must be not unaware of the plot, not unaware that the names she had read were significant. She knew the implications if she told the plotters how close they were to detection.

Of course there were dangers to Domitia herself in an assassination. When Caligula was killed by his Guards, his wife Caesonia was also brutally murdered, and the brains of their infant child dashed out. Domitia had no reason to think the new conspirators intended to deploy only minimum violence. Domitia had watched her husband’s deterioration at close quarters. Had she decided there was no hope of recovery and his exit was inevitable? Cynically, if she survived her husband, that would be her release from misery too. People thought she was terrified he intended harm to her.

Or maybe Corbulo’s daughter chose to act in the national interest: that noblest of motives for any Roman, man or woman.

Lucilla lost no time in informing her colleagues they must act immediately.

The hunt for the next emperor assumed desperate urgency.

The last man they approached was Cocceius Nerva. He might be sympathetic because he had had a nephew, Salvius Cocceianus, who had also been related to the Emperor Otho, a rival to the Flavians back in the Year of the Four Emperors. Domitian had executed Salvius for honouring his Uncle Otho’s birthday.

Nerva was a long-term politician, now in his sixties, looking frail and some thought faintly sinister. Childless, and not particularly liked, he had little experience of provincial government or the army. He was a stalwart Flavian, but conversely this might help smooth over any backlash because he would be acceptable to Flavian supporters. In the course of a chequered history, he had helped Nero put down the Piso conspiracy with much harshness; it was said he also heavy-handedly helped Domitian’s retribution process after the Saturninus Revolt. At least, said Gaius dryly, it meant Nerva knew how plots worked.

Everyone, including Nerva himself, acknowledged that because of his age he was a stop-gap. This would allow a second look at the succession, time to interest a worthy successor. For Nerva, his life was drawing to a close, so why not take a risk?

He was in Domitian’s advisory council, the amici, one of Caesar’s friends. Not that that stopped him. Nerva agreed to do it.

The eighteenth of September came. Domitian spent the morning in court, giving cases his usual pedantic attention.

At noon he adjourned. He was intending to take a bathe and his usual siesta. He demanded to know the time. Attendants assured him it was already the sixth hour, knowing his dread of the fifth. Parthenius then mentioned discreetly that a man had something significant to show him, in his private suite. Obsessed with threats, the Emperor was all too keen to hear what this person had to say. Parthenius controlled access to the Emperor. He trusted Parthenius to vet admissions.

Domitian fearlessly set off alone. A perfectionist, he always wanted to be in sole control of anything vital.

In his bedroom, he found Stephanus, still with his arm bandaged. He handed Domitian a document. As Domitian intently perused this, Stephanus produced the concealed dagger.

At Plum Street, Gaius and Lucilla had spent the hours after breakfast together in their apartment. Their mood was quiet, sober though resigned. They took a special pleasure in the routines of this morning, as if it might be their last time together.

‘This was our home.’

‘Wherever we both are, that’s home.’

Gaius gave Lucilla his discharge diploma. Ordinarily the tablets were signed by Domitian; using his authority as cornicularius, Gaius had had these completed and Lucilla did not ask him if the signature was forged.

‘Released from my oath.’ She understood.

They clasped hands. Each thanked the other for the life they had had together. Neither wept, though both were close to tears.

Gaius was going to the palace to see what had transpired; he had a plan for them to vanish safely afterwards. If anything happened to him, Lucilla would have to manage on her own. There was money. They had plenty, much already sent on ahead.

‘I am coming with you.’

‘No. Stay here.’

‘You never give me orders!’ One hand on her stomach, Lucilla allowed him a let-out. ‘You fear for the child.’

‘For the child, yes — but above all, I am afraid for you, Lucilla. Wait for me here until an hour before the vehicle prohibition lifts. If I have not returned, you must leave at once without me. Think of the baby, think of me and how I love you. Then go and be safe.’

Lucilla gave her promise. Gaius kissed her, came back and kissed her one more time, and left. He was dressed as a Praetorian, in a red tunic, soldier’s boots and military belt, and wearing his sword.

As he walked down the Vicus Longus, he was struck by the normality of Rome. Nor was there anything extraordinary about his own behaviour: a tall man with long legs, walking with a slow tread to his workplace. Though approaching forty, he had kept up the twenty-mile training marches; he was strong and solid. Not yet forty: still plenty of time yet to cause havoc.

It was towards the end of summer, but days were long and the sky cloudless. In September, the sunny side of Roman streets was still uncomfortably hot, though the shade felt clammy. Lines of washing and bedcovers flung over balcony rails to air hung motionless. When, heavy with his mission, the cornicularius sucked in a deep sigh, the air was warm in his lungs.

The fifth hour was when most shops drew across their shutters. People were at lunch; the sixth hour would be their rest period. Few people were about. In this traditionally quiet time, Rome basked. Shabby dogs curled against house walls, asleep. From behind upper floor window shutters came the sound of an unhappy baby mithering. Further along, Clodianus smelt fried food and heard the routine knock of cutlery on pottery.

He turned left, to reach the Forum at the western end, marching faster as he passed the Arch of Titus; he was still relaxed but purposeful. With the House of the Vestals on his right, he crossed the uneven ancient slabs of the Sacred Way then climbed up the steep approach to the Palatine. All the Guards on duty knew him. They nodded in their cornicularius without question.

Inside the palace, there was no Praetorian presence. Secundus must have given the right orders.

Everything in the public areas seemed otherwise normal. Visitors, in Rome for the Games, milled around in the massive state rooms immediately beyond the grand entrance. The cornicularius pushed through the crowds and kept going.

The architect had designed this complex to astonish, delight and confuse people. Knowing it would be his last ever visit, Clodianus took more notice than usual but he did not slow down, apart from when he took care on a flight of steps. Knowing his way around, as all Guards did, he entered the imperial family’s private quarters, exquisite suites nesting deep within the more public areas. He saw no servants in the corridors.

He went quickly to the agreed rendezvous. Parthenius was there, among a small group of others. With them was Nerva, a good-looking elderly senator, who had crinkled hair above a triangular face and a gentle manner. No spare flesh on him. He looked as if he was wetting himself with terror. Clodianus recognised another man as the consul, Caesius Fronto. Fronto looked calm, though keyed-up.

Parthenius gave him a breathless update. Domitian and Stephanus were locked in; Parthenius had arranged locked doors to keep out attendants. The combatants had been closeted for a long time, too long. Noises suggested that they were still fighting, with Domitian very much alive.

Clodianus cursed. He was not surprised by what he heard. Without hesitation, he took over.

He left Parthenius fanning Nerva, who had almost collapsed with terror. They had always had a secondary plan in case Stephanus failed. Clodianus took Entellus, the secretary of petitions, with Sigerius, a junior chamberlain. Parthenius sent one of his freedmen, Maximus. The gladiator who had tried to train Stephanus tagged along.

All the doors to the private suite were still locked. Screaming was audible inside. Two voices.

Clodianus could have crashed in, using a shoulder, but he chose the quiet method. He had taken a key from Parthenius. That way, once they reached the bedroom, his arrival went almost unnoticed during the crucial first moment.

He assessed the scene: a mess. A total bloody mess. But retrievable.

Domitian and Stephanus were grappling on the bedroom floor. Both looked exhausted. Stephanus had stabbed Domitian in the groin. There was blood, blood everywhere. The Emperor had grabbed the dagger with his hands; his fingers were lacerated. The dagger was lying a long way from where they were now.

Stephanus had facial wounds. Domitian had tried to gouge out his eyes. Stephanus must have been stabbed too at some point; his condition looked critical.

Someone else was there, someone who should not have been. Crouching petrified was the long-haired boy who tended Domitian’s personal gods in a bedroom shrine. Palpitating with terror, the Lares boy had frozen beside the massive bed. The Emperor must have screamed for him to bring the knife he kept under its scented, silken pillows. A scabbard had skittered across the marble. All the boy was holding was a pommel with its blade removed: again, Parthenius’ work.

Attendants loyal to Domitian were battering at other doors. Time had run out.

Armed with daggers by Parthenius, the men who came in with Clodianus moved in and tackled Domitian. Entellus, Sigerius, Maximus stabbed him, one after another, a further seven times. Still, he refused to die.

The squad stood back, shaking their heads at Domitian’s resilience. The freedmen were cool enough; they did well. Only the gladiator had no heart for it. Elsewhere in the imperial suite, doors abruptly crashed inwards. There were shouts; people approaching. Clodianus signalled the others to make themselves scarce. They disappeared, leaving a swathe of bloody footprints. Stephanus stayed, too badly hurt to escape yet struggling again to come at Domitian.

Attendants burst in. Making a concerted effort, they pulled Stephanus away from Domitian and killed the steward. Fair enough. It was always convenient if a murderer was finished off at the scene. No messy trial, one neat culprit to be blamed. You could almost wonder cynically if Parthenius had planned that.

Parthenius came into the room.

Domitian was gasping grotesquely, and still snaking sluggishly around the floor. Seeing a Praetorian, Clodianus, his protege, he desperately tried to speak. Clodianus gestured to the others to stay back. He heard Parthenius give calm orders to the servants. That still left the problem.

What was your thinking when you involved yourself?

He was going to die anyway…

Clodianus trod carefully across the floor. Astonishing how far one small drop of blood could spread, as it flattened on the marble in a fine spray. Astonishing how much other gore from the two combatants had spurted, pooled and jellied. Above one glistening, bloodstained area flies already circled with morbid fascination.

Domitian was now nearly gone. His eyelids drooped, probably no longer seeing anything. Impossible to say whether he knew this man standing above him, or realised what his final assailant was about to do.

Without a word, Clodianus drew his sword. He knelt beside the Emperor and thrust it in hard. The flesh closed and gripped his blade, but he twisted it out with the savage pull that legionaries used when despatching an enemy: a second wrench that made the original blow certain.

He did not need to look. Domitian was now dead.

Clodianus pulled off his red tunic, hauling it past his belt and sword scabbard. He wiped the blood from his sword, cleaning it thoroughly, sheathed it and tossed the wet garment away. Underneath he wore another tunic, like a civilian. As he walked past Parthenius, he met the chamberlain’s eyes and nodded. Mutual respect passed between them. They would not meet again.

In the enormous public spaces, no one seemed aware anything had happened. He walked, with his hand casually on his sword pommel, back through the palace, past the oblivious Guards on duty, out into the shock of brilliant September sunshine.

With a steady pace, Gaius Vinius — never again to be Clodianus — retraced his route down from the Palatine, back across the Forum and along the Vicus Longus. The same dogs were asleep in almost unchanged positions and the same baby was fretfully crying. This time he had the sun behind him. He could feel it, warm and cheering on his back, as he returned to the Sixth Region where for years he and the woman of his heart had rented an apartment, the apartment they were now leaving.

He reached Plum Street, found his waiting girl, picked up her hand luggage, shouldered his own, whistled the dog, and walked them briskly to the station house of the First Cohort of vigiles. Scorpus had kept the cart safe for him: a builder’s cart bought from his brother and already laden, an unassuming dray with a comfortable ox, nothing to make anyone look twice. Builders’ carts had a special licence to be on the streets during the normal ban on wheeled vehicles. Leaving now, they would avoid the incoming surge of evening traffic.

‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

Gaius was withdrawn now, in shock. Lucilla accepted his silence. He would talk in due course; he would tell her everything. She draped a cloak around him, taking the reins herself. She pointed out how this was hardly an unusual sight on the Empire’s roads — a lazy scoundrel husband simply staring at the scenery, while his poor pregnant wife did all the hard work… Somewhere deep, a response glimmered; Gaius dropped one hand onto her lap. Just drive, darling.

They would turn out onto the high road, close to the Saepta Julia, as if they were heading past the Horologium and Mausoleum of Augustus, en route for northern Italy. Instead, they would turn off left, drive across the Field of Mars and reach the Tiber. Crossing Nero’s Bridge, they would change direction one more time, to follow the river down to the coast at Ostia, where their ship was waiting.

Behind them in countless local neighbourhoods, citizens were still enjoying lunch and their rest period, unmoved by events on the Palatine. There at the heart of the city, important men had frantic work to do, but nothing of this would become public until tomorrow. Today, Rome, the eternal, the Golden City, lay bathed in sunlight peacefully. There were no alarms. It was a quiet afternoon on the Via Flaminia.