Empire

AD 85

“And you’ve been faithful to her the entire time, Lucius? Even though you haven’t been alone with her for over a year?” said Martial. They were in the garden of Epaphroditus, along with their host and Epictetus.

“Just as I vowed to her,” said Lucius.

“Let me make sure I understand. This woman went away for several months, then finally returned, and now she refuses to meet with you again, except in public and in passing. Yet still you remain chaste, having no intercourse with either women or boys?”

“That is correct.”

“But, Lucius, this is madness! If the woman’s lost carnal interest in you, you must move on. Oh, I understand the heartache, the longing, the period of grief when a love affair ends. But while you’re waiting for that to pass, you still must attend to your physical needs. If you don’t feel ready yet to take pleasure with another woman, then take a boy, since you have no real interest in boys. That way you can experience all the physical pleasure with none of the regret you might feel for betraying this woman – though how you can betray a woman when it was she who abandoned you is beyond me.”

“Martial, you simply don’t understand. She hasn’t betrayed me. She’s as chaste as I am.”

“Oh, really? How can you believe that? Of course, you won’t even tell us if this woman is married, or a widow, or some other man’s slave, or a common whore in the Subura.”

She is none of those things, thought Lucius, but he could think of no way to explain that fact without giving away Cornelia’s identity.

“Personally,” said Epictetus, “I think there’s nothing perverse or unnatural or even unusual about remaining chaste, if the body and mind are in harmony with such a choice. This mad rage to deflower virgins and sample every available prostitute and carry on illicit affairs with other men’s wives, and meanwhile to give equal attention to fawning boys and compliant eunuchs – the sort of topic so fashionable nowadays in poetry – seems only to make a man constantly agitated and dissatisfied. Such a surrender to lust yields very little contentment in the long run.”

“Ah, but it yields so much pleasure in the short run,” said Martial. “Though it can be quite exhausting, I’ll grant you. Our emperor used to be quite the sexual athlete, you know. In his younger days, before his father became emperor, they say the young Domitian was on a first-name basis with every prostitute in Roma; he’d go swimming naked in the Tiber by moonlight with a whole group of lovelies. And he was quite the seducer of respectable matrons as well. He called his activities ‘bed-wrestling.’ I like that, don’t you? It shows that our emperor in his younger days didn’t take lovemaking too seriously. It’s was just another way of keeping fit and working up a good sweat, like horseback riding or a bit of exercise at the gymnasium. Of course, once our emperor married – a true love match – there was never a more devoted husband and father. Ah, the death of that precious little boy! What a blow that was. And his wife’s subsequent affair with that actor, Paris – the irrational act of a grieving mother, surely – was yet another disappointment. Our emperor did what any self-respecting Roman would do – divorced his wife – and Paris just happened to be murdered in the street one night. But so devoted was our emperor to his chosen spouse that he forgave and took back the empress, and their marital bliss continues. My fondest wish is that they will soon produce another heir. Indeed, I have a poem already prepared for that occasion: ‘Be born, great child, to whom your father may entrust the everlasting reins of empire-’”

“And yet, does Domitian look happy?” said Epictetus. “Was he ever happy, even in his younger days, when he was so proficient at this so-called ‘bed-wrestling’? No. Always, he displays that same dour, constipated look that one saw on his father’s face. Yet behold our friend Lucius here. Have you ever seen a man who appeared more contented? Yet Lucius has but one lover, and that lover makes no demands on him at all. He remembers the pleasures he once experienced with her, which are perfect and inviolable in retrospect, and contemplates her from afar, with some suffering but also with the bittersweet satisfaction that she longs for him as well. Clearly there is some danger or impropriety attached to their relationship, either for her or for him, or else I think he would tell us her name; but that element of risk must only add spice to his longing. He loves this woman as certain men are said to have loved a goddess – from afar, with utmost devotion, and at their peril. See how satisfied he appears – his eyes gleam, his movements are sure and graceful, his whole bearing is that of a man at peace with the world and with himself. I think our friend Lucius has discovered a secret happiness that the rest of us can only guess at.”

“We’re certainly left guessing at the name of his lover,” said Martial.

Lucius smiled. “It’s strange, but somehow this relationship – irregular as it may be – has filled a need in my life. As grateful as I am for the gift of friendship from each of you, there was a vacant place inside me, an emptiness that remained unamused by your wit, Martial, unsatisfied by your philosophy, Epictetus, insecure despite all your fatherly concern for me, Epaphroditus. She fills that emptiness.”

“So poetry, philosophy, and friendship cannot compete with unrequited love?” said Martial.

“Not unrequited love, only unfulfilled – for the time being, anyway.”

Epictetus nodded. “If you’ve found contentment in a chaste love affair, you should strive to maintain the relationship just as it is. The happiness that comes from physical consummation is fleeting.”

“All happiness is fleeting,” said Martial. “Life is precarious. Everything changes. Look at the four of us, growing older year by year.”

“Yet we’ve all managed to remain unmarried,” said Epaphroditus with a laugh.

“Only that fellow never changes.” Epictetus nodded towards the statue of Melancomas. “The young boxer is as perfect now as he was the day Epaphroditus unveiled him.”

“And as empty of all desires!” Martial laughed. “Perhaps we should be envious of Melancomas here. While everything around him changes, he never ages, and he is never troubled by hunger or sorrow or longing. Perhaps Medusa wasn’t such a monster after all, when she turned men into stone. Maybe she was doing those men a favour by freeing them from suffering and decay. On the other hand, Pygmalion lusted for a statue and brought her to life, and that went rather well; according to Ovid, they lived happily ever after. So we are left with a puzzle: is it better to turn a man to stone, or bring stone to life?”

“I think you may have found a subject worthy of a poem,” said Epaphroditus.

“No, the paradox is too subtle for my audiences. Rich patrons want a quick setup, a clever allusion or two – preferably obscene – and then a smashing punch line. No, I think my Medusa-versus-Pygmalion idea would be better suited to one of those learned discourses by our friend Dio. Imagine the convoluted argument he could spin, evoking all sorts of metaphors and obscure historical references. Say, has anyone heard from Dio lately?”

“I received a new discourse,” said Epaphroditus, “only yesterday

…” His voice trailed off.

“What! And you’re only just now mentioning it? Come, read it aloud,” said Martial.

“I only had time to quickly scan it. I’m not sure…”

“Don’t tell me it’s no good,” said Martial. “Has the poor exile lost his wit, stuck in Sarmizegetusa?”

“No, it’s not that. To be candid, I’m not sure it’s safe to keep the thing. It may be… seditious.”

“Read it quickly then, and afterwards we’ll burn it.” Martial laughed.

Epaphroditus smiled uneasily. Lucius knew what he was thinking but would not say aloud: none of them completely trusted Martial any longer, because of his favoured status with the emperor. Martial hardly seemed the type to betray old friends, but Epaphroditus had learned to be cautious over the years. It was one thing to gossip about the emperor’s love life – everyone from saltmongers to senators did that – but it was something else to read aloud a work by a banished philosopher.

“I don’t mean that the discourse is overtly seditious,” said Epaphroditus. “Dio is far too subtle for that. But this work could be seen as… teasing the emperor.”

“You’ve set my curiosity ablaze,” said Martial. “What’s the subject?”

“Hair.”

“What?”

“Hair. A learned discourse on hair and its role in history and literature.”

They all laughed. Domitian was notoriously sensitive about his premature baldness. In his younger days he had been famously vain about his chestnut mane, and once, as a gift to a friend, he had even written a monograph on his secrets for hair care. After Domitian’s ascension to power, copies of the treatise proliferated overnight; every literate person in Roma had read it, but no one dared to mention it in the author’s presence. Was Dio’s encomium on hair meant to mock the balding emperor who had exiled him?

“Even the emperor cannot avoid the ravages of time,” observed Martial. He rose and circled the statue. “But our friend Melancomas shall never grow bald, or fat, or wrinkled, and if his lustrous hair should fade, it can always be repainted. How I envy his unchanging perfection! Ah, well, if our host is not going to share that new discourse from Dio, I’m off. I should get a bit of work done before the sun sets. Maybe I can make something of that notion about Pygmalion and Medusa after all. Or perhaps I’ll write a letter to Dio and give him the idea as a gift.”

“I’ll come with you.” Epictetus reached for his crutch and got to his feet with some difficulty. “I dine tonight with a prospective new patron. He wants to meet at the Baths of Titus, so I’d better be off. Are you leaving as well, Pinarius?”

Lucius began to rise, but Epaphroditus touched his arm.

“No, Lucius, stay a bit longer.”

When they were alone, Lucius looked expectantly at his host. “You look worried, Epaphroditus.”

“I am.” The older man sighed. “By all the gods, Lucius, what do you think you’re doing?”

“What are talking about, Epaphroditus?”

“I know the identity of your mystery woman.”

“How?”

“Lucius, Lucius, I’ve known you since you were a boy! Have you ever been able to keep a secret from me?”

Only about the role that Sporus played in Nero’s death, thought Lucius, but he said nothing and let Epaphroditus continue.

“Even before you spoke of her chastity, I knew who she must be. I’ve seen the two of you when you meet in public – the stiff greeting, the averted gazes, the intentional distance you keep between you. And I happen to know that she was absent from Roma during the period you spoke of. I must admit, I find it ironic that the vow she would not keep for a goddess, she will keep for a man. I won’t say her name aloud – what slaves don’t overhear, they can’t repeat – but you know whom I mean. Am I right?”

Lucius gazed at the Flavian Amphitheatre, which was surrounded by scaffolds and cranes; a new tier was being added to accommodate even more spectators. “Yes, you’re right.”

Epaphroditus shook his head. “Lucius, Lucius! What a terrible risk you’re taking. When I think of my promise to your father, to look after you-”

“I’m a grown man now and responsible for myself, Epaphroditus. Your promise to my father was long ago discharged.”

“Still, the danger-”

“We were always very careful, very discreet. I’m not even seeing her any more. We love each other at a distance.”

Epaphroditus shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “You don’t understand the gravity of the situation. Events are about to take place that will affect us all.”

“Events?”

“I didn’t want to talk about this in front of… the others.”

“In front of Martial, you mean?”

“Or Epictetus, either. Or even you, for that matter.” Epaphroditus paused to collect his thoughts. To Lucius he suddenly looked quite old, and more worn with cares than Lucius had seen him in many years. “You know I still have friends in the imperial household, even after so many changes and so many years. Sometimes I hear about things before they happen. My sources demand my utmost discretion, so usually I keep what I know to myself. Yes, I keep things even from you, Lucius. But there’s no point in shielding you now, seeing the danger you’re in. Domitian is about to revive the office of censor. He intends to assume the powers of the magistracy himself, permanently.”

“Didn’t his father do the same?”

“Yes, for a limited time and for a specific purpose. Vespasian conducted a census. That is one of the traditional functions of the censor, but it is not the function which interests Domitian.”

“I don’t understand. What else does a censor do?”

“Lucius, Lucius! Did you learn nothing of history when you were growing up? I know your father supplied the very best tutors for you.”

Lucius shrugged. “Why bother to learn about the institutions of the long-dead Republic, when all power now resides in the hands of one man and the rest of us count for nothing?”

Epaphroditus stifled his exasperation. “Once upon a time, when Roma was ruled by the Senate, the censor wielded great power – in some ways he was the most powerful man in the Republic, because he was responsible for keeping the official list of citizens, and it was the citizens who elected the magistrates. People didn’t vote as individuals, but in various blocks, determined by their wealth and other indicators of status. The censor determined in which block a man voted. That was important, because the voting blocks of the elite counted for more than those of the common rabble. And the censor could strike a citizen from the rolls altogether, which meant that citizen lost his right to vote.”

“And why might a censor do such a thing?”

“If a man committed a criminal offense, for example. Or, more to the point, if the man was guilty of offending public morals.”

“And who was the judge of that?”

“The censor, of course. And so, stemming from his duty to keep the voting rolls, the censor acquired another duty: to maintain public morals. If the censor declared a man guilty of immorality, he could not only strike that man from the voting rolls, but could deprive him of other rights, even throw him out of the Senate. The censorship began with a high purpose, but quickly devolved into a political tool, a way to punish enemies and destroy careers.”

Lucius shook his head. “I still don’t understand. Domitian already can install any man he wants in the Senate, or remove any man he pleases. And what do the senators matter, anyway? They have no real power. Never mind that pathetic decree they recently passed – ‘It is forbidden for the principal officer of the state to put to death any of his peers.’ The notion that the emperor is the first among equals is a fantasy, and the idea that they can constrain him with laws is wishful thinking. So why does Domitian want to make himself censor for life?”

“The office will provide him with a new and very powerful tool. Consider: if the emperor wishes to punish an enemy or a rival, and does so for no purpose but to protect his own authority, he acts as a tyrant. Conversely, he could charge his enemy with a real crime, like embezzling or murder, but that would require producing actual evidence. But in his role as censor, Domitian can cast himself as the guardian of public morality, acting for the good of everyone.”

“What constitutes an immoral act?”

“A list of offenses is being drawn up even as we speak. I saw an early draft. It includes adultery, which is defined as any sexual act performed by a married person which takes place outside the marriage.”

“But that’s absurd! Domitian himself slept with married women when he was younger. One of those women was the empress, who divorced her husband to marry him.”

“Domitian will also revive the old Scantinian law.”

“Refresh my memory.”

“It outlaws sexual acts between men in which a freeborn male is the penetrated partner.”

“Half the members of the imperial court consort with eunuchs!”

“Ah, but everyone assumes it’s the eunuchs who are penetrated, which is perfectly legal, since they’re all either slaves or freedmen. It’s the Roman citizen who plays the passive role who’ll be vulnerable to prosecution.”

Lucius frowned. “Domitian seriously intends to police the sexual behaviour of every Roman citizen?”

“Augustus had such a proclivity. He was quite ruthless when it came to punishing what he considered immorality within his own family, especially among the women. To be sure, when it came to dictating the morals of the citizenry, Augustus generally preferred to rely on inducements rather than penalties, giving tax benefits to married men with children and so forth. But I fear Domitian will use his power as censor to inflict a great deal of suffering.”

Lucius was not convinced. “Perhaps your fears are exaggerated. If Domitian wishes to make an example of a few particularly outrageous people-”

“But, Lucius, don’t you see? That’s what everyone thinks at the outset of such a crackdown: it will be the other people who suffer, the ‘outrageous’ ones, not me. False hope! Domitian sees enemies everywhere. The very fact that the Senate passed that decree, making it unlawful for the emperor to put a senator to death, makes him think they’re plotting against him.”

“So Domitian will seek to punish his enemies by accusing them of vice, rather than insurrection?”

“Exactly. A dossier will be kept on everyone of importance, and who in the Senate is such a paragon of virtue that he need never fear the censor’s wrath?”

“What else is on the list of immoral acts?”

“Incest, which includes relations between uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews – the so-called ‘crime of Claudius.’ Also, carnal relations between a free woman and another man’s slave-”

“But not between a woman and her own slave? Or between a man and another’s man’s slave?”

“Those acts were not listed on the draft I saw.”

“What about fornication with a Vestal virgin?”

Epaphroditus turned pale. “There’s no need for that to be on the list. It’s a capital crime already.”

Lucius began to pace. “How can anyone know what people get up to behind closed doors?”

“The censor will assume the right to know. Remember the banishment of the informers under Titus? Those days are over. Men and women who sell other people’s secrets, even slaves who betray their masters, will flourish under the censor. Citizens arrested for breaking the moral laws can be questioned in what ever manner the censor sees fit, and their slaves will be interrogated under torture. Men found guilty will be encouraged to implicate others.”

“Is that Domitian’s only motivation for this moral legislation? To give himself a tool to terrorize people?”

“Who can say what’s in his mind? He may genuinely believe that he can control the morals of his subjects, and wishes to do so.”

“The hypocrite!”

“Yes; he had a wild youth, but licentious young men often become judgemental in later life, like supple reeds that turn brittle. The emperor is a bitter man. Everyone loved his brother; no one loves Domitian. His precious son died. His wife cuckolded him with a an actor.”

“So all Roma must suffer because of one man’s disappointments?”

Epaphroditus sighed. “To be fair, not all the new moral legislation is punitive. Domitian plans to outlaw castration throughout the empire, as well as child prostitution. How strictly such laws can be enforced I don’t know, but we can applaud the intent. The practice of buying up young boys, making the prettiest ones into eunuchs, and selling them for the pleasure of others is a cruel business. Domitian’s distaste for the practice seems to be sincere. Many a young slave may be spared the loss of his manhood.”

Lucius paced from one end of the garden to the other. “Thank you for the warning, Epaphroditus, but I assure you, no one knows about me and… the woman I love. Except you. And you would never tell.”

“Any witness can be made to talk, Lucius, unless he has a weak heart and dies first.”

Lucius felt the blood drain from his face. After a few mumbled words of farewell, he took his leave of Epaphroditus.

He walked aimlessly, his thoughts racing. The sun began to set. Shadows grew long. He found himself in the heart of the Forum, passing the round Temple of Vesta. The doors stood open. The light of the eternal hearthfire illuminated the marble interior with a soft orange glow. A shadow moved across the light; one of the Vestals was tending the flame. Was it Cornelia? He longed to run up the steps and look inside – the merest glimpse of her face would calm his racing heartbeat – but he forced himself to turn and walk on.

“Lucius, could you add more wood to the brazier?” Cornelia shivered inside her heavy cloak and drew it more tightly around her neck.

The little house on the Esquiline was unchanged since the last time they had met there, many months ago. Lucius had considered selling the house but could not bear to do so; nor did he rent it out. He had kept it vacant, and just as it was in the days when they were meeting regularly. A slave came occasionally to tend to the garden and to clear the cobwebs, and every so often Lucius visited the house, alone, to walk through the rooms and the garden, remembering the times he had spent here with Cornelia.

He could hardly believe she was here again.

The winter day was windy and overcast. Even at midday the room was full of shadows. Lucius fetched wood for the brazier. They sat in chairs across from each other, shivering inside their clothes. He could not recall a meeting in this house when they had not been naked and making love within minutes of arriving. But they had not come here for pleasure. The chill in the air matched their moods.

The thing they most feared had come to pass – and yet they were both still alive. It was Cornelia who had contacted him, insisting that they meet again, despite the danger. He could not refuse her.

In anticipation of this meeting, he had passed a sleepless night imagining their reunion. His heart would race at the sight of her; he would embrace her; she would weep and speak of her suffering; he would listen, and share the terror of his own experience. They would find comfort once again in each other’s bodies.

But that was not what happened. When he entered the house and found her waiting, with only a feeble fire in the brazier to warm the room, they kept their distance. There seemed to be an invisible barrier between them, not only keeping them apart physically but blunting their emotions. They were not like strangers – that could never happen – but they were not like lovers, either. They were mutual survivors of a disaster, numb with shock. The terror they had experienced eclipsed the passion that had once united them.

They seemed unable to approach each other physically, nor were they able to speak of the reason for their meeting, at least not at first. They began by skirting the subject. They talked as any two acquaintances might, about the latest news, keeping their voices steady and quiet. Of course, all the news was about the emperor and the emperor’s schemes.

“Remember what Titus said, about the powerlessness of words to harm the powerful? ‘It is impossible for me to be insulted.’” As he spoke, Lucius loaded more pieces of wood onto the brazier, stacking them carefully so that they would ignite quickly and burn with a minimum of smoke. The simple task calmed him. “Domitian has drawn up a list of plays that can no longer be performed, either because they offend the dignity of the emperor or undermine public morals. And all new plays must be read and approved by the censor himself. We have an emperor who scrutinizes comedies as if they were manifestos against the state.”

“Surely someone reads the plays for him,” said Cornelia. Her tone of voice was almost normal, only slightly strained. She looked not at Lucius but into the fire.

“Domitian has a whole staff dedicated to combing through every play, discourse, and poem produced on the Street of the Scribes, but he himself makes the final judgement. He fancies himself a writer, you know. Only he can judge the seditious intent of other writers. He’s mounted a campaign against slander, as well. Apparently there are too many scurrilous lampoons making the rounds. I don’t mean ditties that insult the emperor – no one is mad enough to do that – but the kind of verses recited at drunken dinner parties, harmless doggerel making fun of the host or hostess, teasing a man for having skinny legs or a woman for putting too much paint on her face. ‘The dignity of distinguished men and women must not be impugned,’ says the censor. So we have poets being whipped and then thrown onto ships headed for Ultima Thule.”

“And men of importance must not compromise their own dignity,” said Cornelia. “Only yesterday he expelled a man from the Senate. The fellow had appeared in a play during one of the festivals and danced in public.”

“And to think, we once had an emperor whose highest aspiration was to act on the stage.” Lucius attempted a smile, but wondered what his face must look like. She glanced at him only briefly, then looked away, as if it pained her to look at him.

“He’s also drawn up a list of ‘notorious women’ – alleged fortune hunters who prey on rich old men,” said Cornelia. “Those women are not only banned from receiving inheritances, they can no longer use a litter to cross the city. ‘If they must seduce and rob old men instead of living within their means, let them go about their shameless business on foot,’ says the censor. I happen to know a few of the women on the list. They’re not harpies or sirens. One is a widow of noble birth whose brothers have all died and whose husband left her destitute. The fact that a certain senator wishes to pay her rent and provide for her in his will shouldn’t constitute a crime.”

“Soon a man won’t be allowed even to give a pair of earrings to his lover,” said Lucius. “What will become of the time-honoured Roman tradition of keeping a mistress? How are those women supposed to support themselves? And what pleasure remains in life for those rich old men?”

“You sound like your friend Martial.” Cornelia managed a semblance of a smile. The rooms was beginning to grow warmer. She loosened her cloak at the neck and sighed.

“Actually, I don’t sound like Martial, and that’s a sad thing,” said Lucius. “He’s changed.”

“How?”

“We don’t see him as often as we used to. He’s always at some court function these days, or at home in his little apartment, scribbling his verses. He still shows up at Epaphroditus’s house every now and then, but when he does he’s very cautious about what he says, just as we’re careful what we say around him. Martial used to joke about the emperor’s ‘bed wrestling,’ his sour expression, even his baldness, but no more. Martial has become the emperor’s favourite – every poet’s dream – only to discover that his role requires an almost impossible balancing act. He must amuse and flatter his patron and produce the cleverest possible poem on whatever topic Domitian chooses, but he must never produce a pun or metaphor or hyperbole that might offend the censor.”

“It’s too bad Martial has been muzzled,” said Cornelia. “We could use a poet with teeth to record the absurdities of these days. Did you hear about the citizen who was struck from the jury rolls? He charged his wife with adultery and divorced her, but then he took her back – just as Domitian did. The censor decreed that a man who couldn’t make up his mind about his own wife should never be allowed to judge his fellow men. And so we have a man who divorced his wife and took her back declaring that a man who divorced his wife and took her back is unfit to judge other men.”

She laughed, but the laughter caught in her throat. She stared at the fire. Watching flames was a familiar occupation for her.

“Does the flame remind you of Vesta’s eternal hearthfire?” he said quietly.

“Yes.”

“What of your faith, Cornelia?”

She took a long time to answer. “I remain steadfast in my devotion to Vesta – despite what’s happened.”

They had finally arrived at the subject they had come to talk about. Lucius moved a few steps closer to her and joined her in gazing at the fire. “What happened to Varronilla and the Oculata sisters was unspeakable,” he said.

Cornelia drew a deep breath. “People say Domitian was merciful. The punishments could have been worse. Much, much worse.”

Her hollow, emotionless voice seemed to be that of another woman, a stranger. He knelt beside her and took her hand. Her fingers were frigid.

“Cornelia, we don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, I want to talk. I want to tell you everything. Oh, Lucius, how I longed to speak to you every day, while it was happening – but you were the one man I couldn’t possibly talk to.” She spoke at last in a normal voice, full of sorrow and pain; the sound of it broke his heart. For the first time, he felt that the woman in the room with him was Cornelia, his Cornelia, the woman he had loved so long and so devotedly.

She wept. He put his arm around her. She fought back her tears.

“It all happened so suddenly. In the middle of the night, armed men appeared at the entrance of the House of the Vestals. They blocked the exits – as if we were criminals and might try to flee. They were led by a man named Catullus, one of the emperor’s oldest friends. Remember his name, Lucius! A tall, thin man with pale, mottled skin and a gaunt face. Everything about Catullus is as cold as ice, except his eyes. The way he looked at me, I felt I was made of straw. I thought his gaze would set me on fire.”

She shuddered. Lucius held her and said nothing, letting her speak at her own pace.

“They assembled the household slaves and took them into custody, dressed in their nightclothes. I’m not sure where they took them, but we later learned they were tortured – all of them, from the youngest to the oldest, from the accountant who kept records for the Virgo Maxima to the half-witted slave who emptied chamber pots. ‘You never know which slaves will yield the most damning evidence’ – so Catullus said at the trial. And by law, the testimony of any slave must be obtained by torture, even the slaves of a religious order like the Vestals. Some of the slaves died from the torture; they were too old to endure it. Others were maimed for life.

“Four of us were accused of breaking our vows of chastity: Varronilla, the Oculatae, and myself. I’m not sure why I was accused. They had no evidence against me, as it turned out. But I didn’t know that at the time. I racked my brain, trying to imagine what they knew and how they found out. We were always so careful, you and I! Or had they simply invented something, and intended to make their case using false evidence, against which I could offer no possible defense? We were taken to the Regia, the ancient house of the Pontifex Maximus in the Forum, and confined to a small room. I didn’t dare say anything to the others for fear that Catullus or one of his henchman was listening from some place of concealment.

“The trial took place in the Regia. Domitian presided, not in his role as censor but as Pontifex Maximus. All the Vestals and a great many priests were there. Catullus presented the evidence.

“Poor Varronilla! There was no question of her guilt. She had been very careless, confiding in one of the slaves, even telling the woman the name of her lover. The Oculata sisters were even more flagrant. They shared the same lover, at the same time, and were seen coming and going outside his house. The lovers of Varronilla and the Oculatae had already confessed, but they were made to appear before the court and repeat their testimony.

“Before Domitian rendered his judgement against those three, the Virgo Maxima begged him to be lenient. He told her she should be ashamed of herself, that she was running the House of the Vestals as if it were a brothel. But he offered conditional clemency: if the accused Vestals would admit their guilt, he would forgo the traditional punishment – being buried alive – and allow them to choose their own form of death. Varronilla and the Oculatae agreed. They confessed before the court, with Catullus asking questions. He forced them not only to name their lovers but to recount each of the occasions on which they broke their vows and to describe the specific acts in which they engaged, no matter how intimate or embarrassing – which parts of their bodies had been touched and penetrated, and in what positions, and what acts they had performed to please their lovers.

“After Catullus had wrung every humiliating detail from Varronilla and the Oculatae, he allowed them to step down. During all this time, no one had questioned me or even mentioned my name, except in the initial reading of the charges. I almost thought they had forgotten me. But they were saving me for last.

“No witnesses were called against me. How could there be witnesses, when not a single slave in the House of the Vestals knew anything of our affair, and no slave of yours had ever seen me in this house? Catullus called on me to name my lover and confess. If I did so, he said, I would be spared like the others from being buried alive and be allowed choose my own form of death.

“I told him I had nothing to say. Domitian rose from his chair and stood before me. ‘If you confess now, at this moment, you will be spared the traditional punishment. But this is your last chance. If subsequent evidence goes against you, and you are pronounced guilty, you will be buried alive. What do you say, Vestal?’

“Still I said nothing. But I thought: they must have Lucius; they must be holding him just outside this room. If I fail to confess, Catullus will parade Lucius before me, and my lover will tell them everything, and I shall be buried alive. How close I came to confessing! I was terrified. The suspense was unbearable. I could have ended it by telling Domitian what he wanted to hear. I had only to utter a few words, and it would be over.

“But I held fast. I said nothing. Catullus took Domitian aside and whispered in his hear. Domitian announced that I was to be taken to a private chamber, stripped, and examined to determine whether or not I was a virgin. He himself, in his role as Pontifex Maximus, would conduct the investigation, with the Virgo Maxima as witness.”

Lucius felt physically ill, imagining the scene. He shuddered.

“No, Lucius, it didn’t happen. The Virgo Maxima stood up to him. She said that such a procedure, carried out against a Vestal who maintained her innocence and against whom there was no evidence of wrongdoing, would be an offense against Vesta. The priests agreed. As timid as they are, almost all of them stepped forward to object. Even Domitian could see he had gone too far. He backed down. But he was furious. So was Catullus. Every time that man looked at me, I felt naked.

“Domitian dropped the charges against me. The Virgo Maxima counted that as a small victory. I still don’t know why I was accused, since they could produce no evidence against me. I think someone must have accused me anonymously, someone who may have suspected me without knowing enough to testify. Perhaps they thought I might confess simply from fear. I very nearly did.”

Lucius nodded slowly. “I think this Catullus was your accuser. Had you ever seen him before?”

“I must have, as part of the emperor’s entourage. I never took any notice of him.”

“But I’ll wager he noticed you. A man like that, lusting after a woman he can’t have, will use whatever influence he has to get her under his control.”

“He very nearly drove me to my death.”

“You’re a Vestal, Cornelia. Beautiful, aloof, unobtainable. There are men who would take perverse pleasure from destroying a woman like you. That may be exactly what Catullus wanted, to see you stripped naked and humiliated.”

“He failed, then. But he did manage to destroy Varronilla and the Oculata sisters. They were returned to their cell. The Virgo Maxima obtained a fast-acting poison for them. They died before sundown.”

“And their lovers?”

“Because they freely confessed, Domitian was lenient. Instead of being hung on crosses and being beaten to death with rods, they were stripped of their property and citizenship and sent into exile – a punishment no more severe than those Domitian hands out to slanderers and adulterers. But, Lucius, what of you? When you heard about the arrests, you must have been terrified.”

“My suffering was nothing compared to yours, Cornelia.”

“Even so-”

“It isn’t worth speaking of.”

In fact, the days and nights immediately after he learned of the accusations against the Vestals had been the longest of his life. At every moment he had expected a knock at his door. The punishment for a despoiler of a Vestal haunted his nightmares; sleep became impossible. He considered fleeing to one of his country estates, or even taking an outbound ship from Ostia, heading for the Euxine Sea and land of the Dacians to join Dio, but the futility of such an enterprise stopped him; if Domitian wanted to arrest him, there would be no escape, and sudden flight would be as good as a confession. Nor could he abandon Cornelia. If he should be arrested, he would refuse to testify, even if he was tortured – so he told himself – and if he was executed, he would die with the knowledge that he had not betrayed Cornelia.

He talked to no one about the arrests and upcoming trial, not even Epaphroditus. If he was being watched and followed, anyone with whom he had contact might fall under suspicion.

The date for the trial of the Vestals arrived, and still Lucius was a free man. All that day, he expected soldiers to come and arrest him. As he did every day, he dispatched his freedman Hilarion to go down to the Forum to deliver messages and bring back the day’s news. Late that afternoon, Hilarion finally returned. He quoted the latest price for grain from Alexandria. He also mentioned that another play had been added to the censor’s list, though he could not remember the title.

“Oh, and what else?” said Hilarion, scratching his head. “Oh yes, the Pontifex Maximus has rendered his judgement of the accused Vestals.”

“Yes?” Lucius tried to control the quaver in his voice.

“All were pronounced guilty – except one.”

“Is that right?” Lucius could hardly breathe. “Which Vestal was that?”

Hilarion thought for a moment. “Cornelia Cossa is her name. She was acquitted.”

Lucius could hardly believe his ears. He was as stunned by the news as if Cornelia had been found guilty. He felt faint. Hilarion asked if he was alright.

“I could use a bit of wine. Would you fetch it yourself, Hilarion?”

As soon as Hilarion left the room, Lucius had burst into tears.

He had longed to contact her, but did not dare to. Then one day a message arrived, written on a scrap of parchment and carried by a street urchin. “Meet me tomorrow” was all it said, but Lucius knew who had sent it and what it meant. And so they were together again at last, after so many months apart.

Lucius shook his head. “If Catullus was responsible for your arrest, he won’t give up. He’ll be watching and waiting for another chance to ruin you. He may be watching even now. He may have seen you come here. It was madness for us to meet again.”

“I had to see you, Lucius.”

“And I had to see you, Cornelia.”

He touched her face. He kissed her.

Both of them had arrived expecting their tryst to be chaste, a meeting to talk and share their suffering, to acknowledge the terrible danger they had escaped and to say a final farewell; but the strain of their ordeal culminated in a physical desire beyond anything they had experienced before. Their union was more than a simple coupling of bodies; it was an affirmation that they were still alive. Lucius was shaken to the core of his being. He experienced a blissful release such as he had never imagined. He knew this would not be the last time they met.

Much later, as he was walking home alone and the haze of lust began to lift and he could think clearly again, the irony of the situation struck him so forcefully that he laughed out loud. Domitian’s relentless campaign for public morals had driven him back into the arms of a Vestal virgin.