Master and God

8

The Insula of the Muses on Plum Street stood in the Sixth Region, the Alta Semita or High Lanes. This insignificant byway ran down the western slope of the Quirinal Hill and descended to the Vicus Longus. To the north were the extensive Gardens of Sallust and across the dip was the Viminal ridge. In this district, which had been favoured by the Flavians in their shabby days, were other substantial houses owned by senators nobody had ever heard of, families clinging on by their supposedly noble fingertips to uncertain status and rusty prestige. As the Senate mouldered under Domitian, they started losing their grip.

Bounded by narrow roads on all sides, the small block contained one of those houses. It was owned by the Crettici, who still lived there, though their fortunes were declining. The lack of heirs meant failure to bring in money through adept marriages, the elderly patriarch was now frail, and on good advice they were seeking to exploit their property. Ground floor rooms that faced onto streets were already leased out as shops or offices. Faded tenants in despised professions occupied single rooms on the top two storeys: honest accountants, engineers with no grasp of physics, half-blind bead threaders, a retired armed robber with quiet habits… Adaptations had recently begun on the first floor, carving up family accommodation in order to make bijou apartments, where a good class of person might be lured, guaranteed not to affront the owners, since the Crettici were hanging on in their original suites around the interior courtyard.

They still wanted to believe the house was their own, though in truth many other people had possession. A takeaway food and wine bar on one corner started slowly but as it became popular with passing workers, there were noisy periods. A religious statuette boutique attracted obsessed old widows who shouted strange abuse at harmless passers-by. The stationer served odd bods, in the form of would-be writers. They were believed responsible for a rash of subversive and not very funny graffiti. A stray dog solved that by biting a culprit.

Facing onto Plum Street were now a fringe-and-tassel shop (struggling) and a booth where a slightly peculiar man sold multi-bladed pocket-knives to soldiers and shy adolescent boys buying birthday presents for their fathers (a galloping trade). Between them, newly built steep stone steps disappeared under a tall arch, leading up to a discreet apartment. This was ‘strikingly renovated, with fine art frescos and high-end fittings’; Melissus, business manager for the Crettici, was attempting to sell a long-term lease to ‘discerning clients’ (anyone daft enough to believe his patter). A discreetly veiled imperial freedwoman seemed a good prospect, until she explained, ‘People who can afford exquisite frescos are looking for more space than this, while people who only want four rooms won’t pay your price.’

‘What about the decor?’

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘You dislike it?’

‘I cannot afford it.’

‘You need to make up your mind quickly,’ oozed Melissus, deaf to obscenities like ‘cannot afford’. ‘Somebody else is interested.’

You’re bluffing.

Right.

You invented him?

He can’t afford it either.

A few weeks went by. There was no other interest. This was mainly because the pocket-knife vendor, who had fallen out with Melissus, was telling enquirers the place had been taken off the market. Melissus had not paid him attention, being concerned only to live the classic life of an owner’s agent: eating pies in his little office, conversing with associates in the Roman Forum, or sleeping with one of his mistresses. Neither was young any more; he was getting his action before they both packed him in.

Things became pressing. The Crettici were desperate to recoup their expenditure on the misconceived revamp. Their contractors wanted payment. Melissus had promised he would install tenants by the first of July, the traditional start of annual rents in expensive properties. Tenants had to pay upfront. It was attractive for owners, though a burden for tenants.

Melissus concocted a compromise. He told both potential clients that he was willing to split the apartment. It was laid out with two rooms each side of a central corridor. They could occupy half each. A lightweight partition could be put up as a divider. Melissus presumed these cheapskates would not object to shared facilities. Instead, he talked up how rare it was to have water, a clanking pipe linked to the supply the Crettici paid for from the nearest aqueduct: this was official, so no danger of being fined for illegal access. Melissus went into ecstasies over the tap in a cubby-hole that served as a kitchenette where a clever run-off then sluiced out a tiny lavatory, giving personal privacy as well as immediate convenience…

This apartment was indeed elegant, by Roman standards. The Crettici had had no idea how to cut corners for their own commercial benefit.

The freedwoman learned that her co-lessee would be a serving soldier. She pouted.

‘Not to worry,’ Melissus assured her. ‘The Emperor is taking the troops abroad, Germany, Gaul, some horrible place — by the way, I never told you that; it’s a state secret.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Demurely she implied she had better contacts than his.

‘Oh! The man’s brother is one of the builders, Fortunatus; you may have seen him working here — “Those steps will last a hundred years.. That’s a lovely bit of travertine!” He put his brother onto this, as an investment opportunity. The fellow just got married. He wants to salt away some capital, a secret from the wife. He’s looking for a business partner, if you’re interested.’

‘How does that work? To earn off the place he must intend to install tenants of his own?’ Clearly, like so many in Rome, the soldier intended to sublet at a profit. Some buildings had so many tiers of renters, no one could work out who owned the head lease.

‘He is leaving the country so that’s months away…’ The agent was bluffing; the soldier would want to have his subtenants in place before he left. Then he would be away, so if they turned out unsatisfactory, the freedwoman would find herself stuck with the problem. ‘Now I do need to move quickly, so let’s get this lease signed.’ Melissus winked. ‘You will be first in; you can make the place your own.’

‘I suppose you told this soldier, “She’s a woman alone; you can push her around”… Does the bullyboy have references?’

‘He is a Praetorian Guard, so have no qualms. A centurion’s assistant. Handsome fellow. Perfect manners. Absolutely responsible.’

‘A woman has to be careful.’

‘He will not make advances. I told you, he’s newly married. Besides, this is business for him; he won’t muck about. Maybe you know of him? His name is Vinius.’

‘Never heard of him,’ she answered, not believing in coincidence.

What Melissus had told Gaius Vinius was that he, the helpful Melissus, had with great difficulty persuaded an influential freedwoman to relinquish part of her space, given that she would be infrequently in Rome due to her duties attending on the imperial ladies.

‘Know anything about this bint?’ growled Vinius, when he made contact just before the troops left Rome. ‘Is she a good businesswoman? I want solvency.’

‘Naturally I ran checks.’ Melissus had merely asked his wife. ‘She only accepts select clients. Noblewomen flock to her, wanting to be beautified like princesses. She will not default.’

‘I don’t want upsets on my premises. Is there a man in tow?’

Must be. They all have one. ‘No follower is obvious. And I have guaranteed that you won’t cause offence, by the way. This woman seems very respectable, hard-working, honest — just don’t jeopardise everything by trying to grope her.’

‘Not interested,’ scoffed Gaius Vinius. ‘I’m in enough trouble. I’m on my third damned wife!’

Pollia had kicked him out after only six weeks. She said she found Vinius unbearable; she claimed he was mean with money, always absent, humourless, unkind to her mother and fell asleep while making love. (He denied the last point.) Insultingly, she went back to the husband she had previously left, a violent swine by all accounts. She took her son. Vinius regretted losing contact with the child.

To help him forget, Felix and Fortunatus swiftly fixed him up with Verania. A priest was booked to take auguries at the wedding before Vinius knew anything about it, and his brothers did later sheepishly confess that the new bride could have been better vetted. Within a week Vinius discovered Verania had schmoozed his banker and was stealing from him. Convinced he had funds salted away (as he did), she was to be a tenacious wife.

‘So what’s her name, this investor I’m roped up with?’

‘Flavia Lucilla.’

After years in the vigiles, listening to unlikely stories of coincidence, Vinius remained expressionless.

Their coming together here was not entirely chance. The Cretticus house stood in a position that suited both of them. Lucilla wanted to be near to the Flavians’ private homes; Vinius was looking at property en route to the Praetorian Camp. She could easily access her ladies; he could check on his investment when passing. The time was right; they both had savings. Since Domitian started a massive building programme, all Rome was full of dust and marble carts. Builders were flourishing and Vinius’ brother Fortunatus had just set up on his own account, renovating apartments. As an entrepreneur, to further his own sticky operation, he was quick to nudge unlikely investors into partnership. He assumed Vinius would eventually buy out the freedwoman and make double profits by subletting her rooms too.

She hoped to earn enough to purchase his lease and rid herself of him.

On the Kalends of July, first day of the month, Lucilla moved in. The promised dividing partition had yet to appear and since it would destroy the proportions of the frescoed corridor, she did not remind the agent. She had first choice of rooms, assigning herself the two that overlooked the interior courtyard, while leaving the absent Praetorian, or his tenants, to suffer the noises from the street. Although shutters cut down some of the clamour, whoever lived there would have to endure night-time delivery carts, tedious street-cries, and the buzz from a small market. She would be shielded, and more importantly for her work, one of her rooms had access to a balcony, with doors that could be opened to flood the place with light.

The apartment had once been a suite of family bedrooms with interior access. Blocked off from the main house, it was now reached through double doors off a private little landing at the top of its own new stairs from the street. Inside, the proportions were still grand. It had wooden floors and ceilings throughout. The central corridor was painted in muted shades of green and turquoise, relieved with flashes of chalk white. The four main rooms were decorated in dark red, with coloured tendrils and flowers, executed finely as dados and cornices. At the far end, informal curtains hid the domestic facilities, a scullery and lavatory; these were basic, though their very existence was a rarity.

Lucilla’s previous building had been a purpose-built lodging house with forty tenants crammed in on many floors. Her single room there was dilapidated and draughty, containing only a low bed, a lopsided cupboard and a few secondhand pots; she did little more than sleep in it. Now she had this new apartment, she could invite private clients and have leisure herself. Some women wanted her to visit their homes, but others welcomed a chance to go out; these civilised surroundings, with a discreet entrance and elegant decor, were ideal. She seated them in the room with the balcony to have their hair styled; she could wash their locks and make them drinks, while she heated hot curling irons. Once her clients all left, she could relax in the styling room, with its comfortable wicker armchairs. Lucilla slept in the second room and kept her own things there.

Carefully, for she was terrified of poverty and hardly dared spend money, she had begun to buy furniture. She spent more readily on the tools of her work: combs, scissors, mirrors, cosmetics, footstools and side-tables.

As Melissus promised the Praetorian, she was solvent. She had cashed in most of her mother’s jewellery; she still had some money from the arena lottery; then, as well as the earnings she and her sister Lara made, Lucilla had a discreet source of income from her own commission making hairpieces for her anonymous male client at the palace. She had set a high price for that.

Life in the new apartment had, for her, as much luxury as she could ever need. She welcomed periods of solitude. She loved the privacy and peace. She badly hoped the Praetorian would continue to ignore the place. For almost a year she was thoroughly spoiled, having sole possession while the Emperor and his soldiers were away.

Domitian had gone to Gaul, on the excuse of overseeing a census; then he suddenly swerved across Germany where he built roads to take troops over the River Rhine. His trip to the north had been planned in advance, with a military purpose from the start. There was detailed pre-consultation at Alba with the Emperor’s council. Enormous forces had been gathered for the expedition, with detachments from all four legions in Britain, for instance, even though the governor there, Agricola, was conducting troop-hungry military expansion. A new legion was created, the I Flavia Minervia, named for Domitian’s patron deity. He was desperate to achieve military glory to set him alongside his father and brother: Vespasian the conqueror of Britain, Titus the victor of Judaea.

He entered the territory of a tribe called the Chatti on the unconquered east bank of the Rhine; he established a presence and subdued the Chatti, who had a warlike reputation. Although on Domitian’s return the joke ran that the Chatti were ‘more triumphed over than conquered’, he did surprise them and pen them into their fortresses. Rome now straddled the southern Rhine, with a new frontier thirty miles beyond the river and control over main roads used by various tribes to pass north and south. Domitian had annexed a strategic bight of Germany and put himself in a good position to tackle the dangerous gap between the Rhine and the Danube, which served as a funnel for aggressive tribes who were seeking to move west.

Hostile commentators would portray this campaign as whimsy on Domitian’s part, but it was a continuing move to strengthen the frontier in Europe, a process begun by his respected father.

The following summer Domitian arrived back in Rome, styling himself a conqueror. The Senate was prompted to award him a formal Triumph.

Domitian assumed the honorary name of ‘Germanicus’ as if he had won a tremendous victory. His critics made much of it. The previous Germanicus had been a much-respected soldier and commander, elder brother to the Emperor Claudius, who went into a hostile district to recover the bodies from three legions slaughtered in a disaster, thereby restoring the national psyche. Chipping into the lands of the Chatti was modest by comparison, and spoilsports whispered that neither Domitian’s father nor brother had claimed equivalent titles for their genuine military exploits… Deeply sensitive, Domitian took note of who was whispering.

The imperial ladies, who had enjoyed a relaxed holiday for many months, threw themselves into a flurry of treatments and primping. Lucilla and Lara had a hot time meeting their requirements. The Triumph only lasted a day, but it was a long one, from a dawn start, through an interminable procession at a snail’s pace, to a public banquet. The ladies had to be on show for most of it, prepared to be stared at even though most of the crowd’s attention would be fixed on the endless marching groups of proud officials, seedy priests, tetchy sacrificial animals, exhausted musicians, bored soldiers, the painted floats that constantly creaked to a standstill, wobbly bearers carrying slightly suspect booty, and glum prisoners. At last came the gleaming chariot which carried the Emperor, dressed in white in the role of Jupiter, while a slave supposedly muttered, ‘Remember, you are only mortal.’

‘Germanicus is deaf to that!’ scoffed Lara.

Lucilla was rarely at home while they were preparing their charges for greeting the victorious general, but once the Triumph was over she knew that the Praetorian’s half of the apartment might be claimed. Despite this, she was so used to being alone there that she was badly startled one evening. As she prepared her supper, she heard noises; someone was in the house.

‘Sorry,’ said the man in the corridor, seeing her alarm. ‘I am-’

‘I know who you are.’

‘Your co-tenant. Name of Vinius, Gaius Vinius.’

‘Gaius Vinius what?’

‘I only use two names.’ What a poser!

‘You could have knocked.’ Lucilla glared at him.

‘I’m not a passing sponge salesman.’ No help from him. He softened. ‘Yes, I need a way to let you know it’s me.’

‘Whistle a tune?’

‘I’m not the bread boy either.’ He looked disdainful. ‘I’ll call out, “It’s me — Vinius”.’

‘Yes, that should work,’ snorted Lucilla sarcastically, as she turned away. He had not changed; she still found his attitude overbearing.

His damaged face was unforgettable. His current wife had said, in a rare moment of discernment, that some people would see Gaius Vinius as half disfigured, some as half handsome. Now meeting him for the second time, Lucilla was still making up her mind.

She had forgotten he was taller than average and subtly powerful despite a medium build. He wore a plain grey tunic, with a worn belt and boots; reassuringly he was unarmed. Lucilla noticed again how his dark hair looked finely trimmed, his hands beautifully kept. She liked his grooming. He seemed fastidious, though not offensively vain. She noted his wedding ring again and, now, a signet ring.

If he remembered her, he gave no sign.

Vinius looked around his investment. It was a year since he had been here, at a time when the renovations were still incomplete, with dust sheets and scaffolding everywhere. Now it was cleaned up and occupied, it looked, felt and even smelt different. He was pleased with what he had taken on. Fortunatus had given him a good tip.

After he eyed up the corridor, he came to the doorway of the tiny kitchen. There was no room for two, so he leaned against the gathered curtain. He saw a stone bowl beneath the tap, a counter barely a plank’s width, high shelves, a low-level rubbish bucket. Nosily, he watched Lucilla cutting sheep’s cheese into a bowl of lettuce. Refusing to feel intimidated, she mentioned the suggested partition.

‘Yes, that should ruin the aspect successfully!’ He gazed back at the corridor. ‘I suppose you are anxious in case I put in sub-tenants?’ Vinius clearly thought himself a wit: ‘I’ve offered it to a large family with no sense of hygiene and four screaming brats.’

‘That’s a relief.’ Calmly Lucilla tossed olives into her bowl. She had huge qualms about the other rooms’ future. ‘I was dreading you would dump some ghastly mistress on me. You’d both have noisy intercourse; she’d be a spiteful piece who would leave dirty bowls in the sink until she forced me to wash up after her…’

‘I like the sound of that!’ He grinned. He seemed more hollow-cheeked and unhappy than Lucilla remembered, perhaps less sure that grin of his would impress. He need not have worried. ‘Honestly, I have not decided what to do. I apologise for taking my time. I promise to discuss any plans with you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Lucilla coldly.

More relieved than she would admit to him, she scattered pine nuts on her food; she did not offer Vinius anything. They were equals as co-tenants. If he felt peckish, he could bring in a hot pie.

He made a fuss checking the miniature griddle, said it was dangerous and he would speak to the letting agent about putting in protection at the back of the fire basket. When she first arranged her own bowls and cutlery, Lucilla had left one empty shelf for his use; she watched him wondering whether to challenge this. He crossed to his own two rooms, working out which she had allocated; he checked dimensions with a folding measure his brother had lent him, then appeared to be about to poke his nose into her rooms too.

Lucilla blocked his path. Vinius stopped, reassessed his rights, grudgingly revised his view of hers. They had a short face-off.

Vinius cleared his throat. He looked her in the eye, finally acknowledging that day at the station house. ‘Flavia Lucilla. I see you grew up nicely.’

‘Oh, have we met before, soldier?’ Since his face was unforgettable, this amounted to an insult.

Oddly, he just smiled. ‘I let you down, I know… You did stay on my conscience but I was transferred out straight after the fire. I hope someone else came to look into your loss.’

‘There was no loss.’

‘Ah.’

They stood, three feet apart, in the corridor, either side of where the partition would be, if the agent ever had one constructed.

‘Your mother had a lover back then. What happened to him?’

‘I have no idea.’ Lucilla moved back towards the kitchen, not wanting to think about Orgilius, not wanting Gaius Vinius to sense that the man had seduced her. He would probably say he could tell that someone had. Still, that was how a man saw things.

Vinius was smitten by the alteration in Flavia Lucilla. She had changed much more than him. No longer a neglected child, she was neat, vibrant and kitted out daintily, in the tradition of her trade. Strappy sandals. Fancy hems on her dress. Plaits tied into a topknot with ribbons. In quiet moments, she and Lara did each other’s hair, nails, pedicure, brows. Lucilla frequently changed her appearance, enough to show she had an eye for fashion while never looking like a rival to the women she tended.

‘How is your mother?’

‘She died.’

‘Sorry to hear it.’

‘At least I found my sister. We work together now.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Lara — why?’ Lucilla asked truculently; Vinius was questioning her as if he were still an investigator.

‘Calm down! If I’m knocking about here, I may run into her.’ It was meant to make Lucilla feel unreasonable, though Vinius noted she merely scowled. He knew he could sound high-handed. ‘So your sister does not live with you?’

‘She is married with a family.’

His inquisitiveness was annoying. It forced Lucilla to retaliate: ‘You’re not dossing here with your wife then?’

Vinius looked surprised at the idea. ‘We live near the Market of Livia, by the Servian Wall…’ He pushed away the thought of Verania. They had a couple of rooms in a tenement, adequate (in his opinion) but cruder than this place.

‘Oh yes, I heard you keep secrets. You don’t intend your wife to know you have this place.’

He flinched. ‘My damned brother talks too much.’

‘He does!’ scoffed Lucilla, to make him wonder.

‘What other nonsense has Fortunatus regaled the whole neighbourhood with?’

Lucilla raised her neatly shaped eyebrows. ‘Not too much. What’s exciting you? Everyone around here thinks you are a man of mystery.’

‘That’s good!’ answered Vinius through gritted teeth. ‘That’s exactly how I like it!’ Then he slipped in vindictively, ‘So: who is Junius? Your boyfriend?’

Lucilla blinked. ‘My brother-in-law.’

‘I saw his name on our lease. I want to know what he’s like,’ Vinius growled. ‘Don’t tell me it’s not my business; it is. I don’t care for unknowns.’

‘He is my guardian — supposedly. I just put him down to keep Melissus happy.’ A Roman woman could not engage in business on her own account. If she lacked a father and husband, then for anything legal or financial she was obliged to have a male ‘guardian’ to act and sign for her. ‘Forget him, Vinius. He doesn’t know anything about it.’

‘So how did he sign the lease?’

‘My sister wrote his name in.’

‘Right!’

‘Soldier, your only worry is whether I pay up. I feel the same about you; the second-year rent is due now, incidentally.’

Vinius pre-empted her; he had paid Melissus that day. He had his Triumphal bonus to keep out of his wife’s grasp. To protect the cash from Verania, he was spending more of it on material goods and warned Lucilla he intended to have furniture delivered.

Putting on a show of competence, Vinius inspected the front door lock. ‘We need this changed. I don’t want the agent, or even my brother, or anyone else who may have obtained keys wandering in. One for you; one for me. No duplicates. Agreed?’

Lucilla nodded, looking amused. Nothing for wifey?

Don’t be cheeky!

Vinius had a thought. ‘Doesn’t the agent have responsibilities — cleaning? maintenance?’

‘I already gave instructions,’ Lucilla informed him. ‘The slaves have to knock and wait to be admitted. They must keep the entrance tidy so the apartment looks lived in, but they can only work indoors when one of us is here to supervise.’

‘That man Melissus wanted me to pay for a porter and a cook.’

‘I said no. He wasn’t happy.’

‘Good girl. Those bastards try anything to push the price up… That seems to cover everything.’ Vinius sounded almost disappointed.

Before he left, Gaius Vinius held out one hand and they formally shook on their partnership. Both kept it brisk.

Oddly, when Lucilla ate her supper that evening, the apartment seemed unduly still. Their choppy conversation had affected her; she noticed her heart pattering.

Gaius Vinius was a man; he expected to dominate. He would learn better.

On leaving Plum Street, Vinius met his brother in a bar, as he did from time to time. Naturally Flavia Lucilla became a subject of conversation. Fortunatus needed to be reassured that his young brother would be able to tolerate her; there was nothing so awkward as a financial arrangement that failed to work out… ‘I only saw her all veiled up, but they say she’s tasty.’

‘Passable,’ shrugged Gaius.

With male complacence, he reflected that his assessment that first time he met her had been right; Flavia Lucilla had grown up quite attractively. The scrawny girl had filled out and fluffed up, fulfilling his prophecy to such an extent Gaius Vinius preened himself on his astuteness.

Fortunatus led a blameless life. His wife ensured that he ate dinner at home, every night without exception. She was also prone to turning up at whatever site he was working on, to bring his lunch, or for some other domestic reason, at unexpected times of day. His men joked that Galatia came to pick him up and take him home safely when they knocked off work, though that was untrue; she frequently left Fortunatus to find his own way home since, after all, he was not a schoolboy.

He was eager that his young brother should enjoy more excitement.

‘Are you screwing her?’

‘Not yet.’ Out of pity, Gaius went along with his brother’s need to be titillated. As Fortunatus drooled with jealousy, Gaius quipped, ‘She will have to wait until I’m in a good mood.’

O Jupiter. Gaius, you lucky beggar!

Fortunatus concluded their gossip in his favourite way. He was master of the well-placed fart.

Vinius went home to his own house where in due course he made love to his wife. There was no point a man being married unless he availed himself of his rights if ever, and indeed whenever, he had the opportunity.

Supposing that intercourse would make him approachable, Verania afterwards asked if it was true that the Emperor had raised the pay of the armed forces. Vinius pretended it was just a rumour. Luckily his salary, after deductions, was paid into the soldiers’ savings bank; that was kept in armoured chests under the shrine at the Praetorian Camp, well beyond the grasp of wives who were, after all, not supposed to exist.

Domitian had in truth given the troops an astonishing raise; he had increased pay across the board by a third. Who knew what the damage to the Treasury was — but who cared? It made the soldiers happy and secured the army’s loyalty.

They approved of more than that. Although the literary commentators who had stayed in Rome picking their noses all satirised the new Germanicus for indulging in a fake Triumph, the soldiers assessed his expedition differently. They could see how invading the Chatti formed part of the careful strategy to beef up frontiers against the very real threat of invasion. And Domitian now had another success. News came that Agricola, the governor of Britain, had won a major battle against the northern British tribes in some wild place called Mons Graupius; he brought more of the island under Roman control than had ever happened before (or would ever happen again).

All this made for a good mood in the army. The legions might never love Domitian as they had Vespasian and Titus, with their grasp of logistics, brilliance at siege warfare and willingness to be in the thick of it, fighting hand to hand. But Domitian had won the troops over.

He would need that. Because it soon became clear he was gripped by an obsession that he had enemies everywhere.