Master and God

24

The quarrel between Gaius Vinius and Flavia Lucilla was hard and upsetting. It involved pointed, bitter silences aimed, from behind closed doors, across the corridor at Plum Street. They easily sustained the feud for a year.

Both became adept at avoiding each other. Sharing the same apartment could have been impossible, especially as Gaius now made a point of being there to irritate Lucilla with his ownership. They mastered a fine art of leaving a dish carefully positioned, to mark kitchen territory; Gaius would elaborate this by rewashing a supposedly cleaned saucepan of Lucilla’s to show how scouring was done by experts. Doors would open silently but click closed again, avoiding a face-to-face meeting. The watchdog became a constant battleground over petting rights, though Terror was in heaven, rightly thinking he now had two doting owners. Gaius brought him horrendous marrow bones, deliberately leaving them in the corridor, so as soon as the dog lost interest Lucilla would kick them out of doors furiously, with their comet-trail of flies. Gaius returned them. ‘Here, Terror — nice boney!’

Once, once only, Gaius came upon and ate two cold artichoke bottoms that were not his.

This was a dangerous moment. Lucilla spent a wrathful night, mentally planning vile torrents of recrimination, but she overslept and he hastily bought a whole netful next morning before he had to face her. She would have to prepare and marinade the new chokes, which caused plenty of bile, but Gaius kept out of her way for a month.

Once she did weaken. Coming home between visiting clients, she heard a troubled shout. From the open doorway of the sitting room, she saw Gaius had dozed off on the couch. He was frowning, his jaw clenched, one hand forming a fist. As dreams distressed him, he let out fitful gasps. Aware of his deep need for sleep, Lucilla slipped among the furniture, to close the heavy wooden shutters, muffling light and noise. After she finished lunch, she looked in again. Now Gaius slept peacefully. The watchdog had shoved in beside him. Although Baby was not allowed up on cushions, he had mastered sneaking up onto the four-foot-wide couch one paw at a time; Gaius must have woken enough to allow it and massage the loose skin under the dog’s collar, where his hand remained. She left them together.

In between were long periods when she and Gaius were in different places and so never had to meet. Lucilla was able to focus her antipathy on the distasteful work in which he was now involved, the results of which were well known at court and throughout society.

Rome had never been a liberal environment, but its atmosphere had decidedly altered. One man could not single-handedly wreak this change. Domitian relied on people’s indifference, their compliance, their complaisance. He also needed his soldiers, his undercover inquisitors, his brutal enforcers. He needed the Guards.

The Praetorians’ remit had always been threefold: imperial protection, suppression of public disturbances and discouraging plots. An emperor’s measures against plots could be as innocuous as Vespasian’s edict ordering food shops to sell only lentil and barley dishes, so boring that nobody would hang around talking politics. Or they could extend fear and betrayal like sinister tentacles into all areas of home and business life. That was Domitian’s way. Vinius Clodianus now had to work spreading the fear.

Strictly speaking, the wider supervision of law and order, including intelligence collection, came under the Urban Cohorts, governed by their Prefect, Rutilius Gallicus. He had a reputation for restraint and fairness, although trying to reconcile such an attitude to Domitian’s punishing regime could well have helped his mental health deteriorate. The Urbans supervised the triumvirs, a board of three who organised the ceremonious burning of seditious books — or books that Domitian called seditious — a bonfire in the Forum that was now lit with depressing regularity. They ran the political espionage team who investigated treason and social crimes. They carried out interrogations, often using torture, even though that was recognised as unreliable because some suspects were too tough to give in, while others collapsed at the first hint of menace and would say anything they thought the arresting officer wanted to hear.

As censor, chief magistrate and as Pontifex Maximus or chief priest, the Emperor himself judged many criminal proceedings. If Rome was a collective household, Domitian was its head. He presided over serious trials. Theoretically, he would never initiate charges himself, but when names were handed in by informers, the facts (or fantasies) had to be checked to gauge the likelihood of securing a conviction; where Domitian was the judge, his Praetorians liaised closely with the Urban Cohorts. Vinius Clodianus helped the Urbans evaluate cases and gave them ideas for following up evidence.

He was startled by what he saw. As censor, Domitian’s actions were meticulously correct, yet some seemed crazy and unjust; he ordered that when a juryman was convicted of taking bribes, all his colleagues on that jury should be punished too. He expelled someone from the Senate because he had acted in pantomimes. An ex-centurion was proved to be a slave after many years living as a free citizen; he was returned to slavery with his original master. Charges that the Emperor hounded married women for adultery were coloured with tales that he had often seduced the women himself first — though at Plum Street Clodianus once overheard one of Lucilla’s clients maintaining that if true, the women would not submit quietly but would come out and accuse him openly. What was there to lose? And why should Domitian get away with it? (Lucilla realised Vinius was in the apartment and shut the woman up fast.)

Sometimes accusations revived old injuries: Vespasian had once decided not to prosecute an opponent called Mettius Pompusianus, declaring that leniency would force him to be grateful and therefore loyal. Domitian first exiled Pompusianus to Corsica, then put him to death for having a map of the world painted on his bedroom walls, indicating supposed political ambitions. The man had also taken an interest in historical royalty. Studying bad rulers from the past was always seen as suspicious by bad rulers of the present; a philosopher died after an unwise speech criticised tyrants.

Domitian had no compunction about making an attack personal. Aelius Lamia perished; his only crime was to have been Domitia Longina’s first husband. Although at one point Domitian had made him consul, Lamia was never reconciled; he took his loss hard and made no secret of it. Someone complimented him on his voice; he joked that he had given up sex and gone into training (as vocalists did). Then when Titus once urged him to remarry, Lamia scoffed, ‘Why — are you looking for a wife yourself?’ In the end, he was prosecuted on a trumped-up charge. He was supposed to have composed libellous verse.

The written word was always dangerous. Suspicion was so invasive that on two occasions issues of intellectual freedom drove Gaius and Lucilla further apart. What Lucilla had heard about Vinius at work, in gossip from his family, convinced her that he had become an accomplice to Domitian’s repression.

The first time they clashed was at the home of Felix and Paulina when Lucilla was invited for Marcia’s birthday. Vinius did not attend the meal, but turned up with a present for the young girl afterwards. It was raining; he was wearing his hooded military cloak and although he unfastened the front toggles, he kept it on so was clearly not staying. To avoid him, Lucilla stepped out on a sun terrace ‘for air’, but he followed her.

It was ages since he had spoken to her directly. He came out munching cake in a casual way, but the confrontation was preplanned because he quickly broached the unusual subject of a poem by her friend Statius, about Rutilius Gallicus. This happened after the City Prefect regained his health and resumed his duties. How Vinius knew about the poem was never clear, for Statius had not yet published his collection; an informer must have gone to one of the poet’s popular readings, heard him recite a draft addressed to Rutilius, and made an insinuating report.

‘The piece began, “Rutilius has recovered, thank you, gods; you do exist!” Makes you vomit,’ declared Vinius, a frank critic.

‘Papinius Statius writes in what is called the mannerist style,’ Lucilla replied in a haughty tone, staring out at the rain which had come on suddenly earlier and still drenched the empty streets. A damp breeze chilled her arms; she huddled in her stole. ‘Much as I like him, I agree the heavy classical allusion can seem overdone.’

‘He must be taking the piss.’

‘He writes occasional poems to mark public events, or poems of friendship. Celebrating a marriage, bon voyage, a new bath house-’

‘Lament for a dead parrot!’ snorted Vinius. Lucilla was already dismayed, then he went into startling detail: ‘Listen: in this Rutilius effort, according to your crazy poet friend, the god Apollo and his medico son Aesculapius personally flew here and saved the Prefect with a mystical infusion of some herb called dittany from Crete. What rubbish. It’s an insult to the excellent Themison of Miletus, who I know used a very successful healing regime based on sympathy and rest. One passage described Rutilius sprawled and inert — it mentions overwork, lack of sleep, how he was frozen in inactivity — ’

Alarmed, Lucilla interrupted, ‘Is this an official visit?’

Vinius stared at the depressing weather.

‘Gaius Vinius, are you interrogating me?’

‘If it was official I would have the militia outside.’ Inside in fact, with you tied to a chair… ‘One question: I see nothing to be ashamed of in the man’s collapse. Rutilius seems open about it. Everyone knew he was unwell. But to avoid a crisis of confidence, it was officially decided not to give out exact details.’

Lucilla finally understood. ‘You think I told Statius what happened?’

‘I am trying not to believe that.’

‘You’re scared you’ll get into trouble for having said too much to me!’

Vinius glowered. ‘Think that if you must. So, Flavia Lucilla, did you pass on what I told you?’

‘No.’

‘Thank you.’

Although bitterly resentful, Lucilla tried to diffuse trouble: ‘Rutilius writes; he attends the literary circle. During his recovery he talked freely about his symptoms. He told Statius himself.’

‘Fine.’

‘Is that it? You are not much of an interrogator; what if I am lying?’

‘Are you?’

‘No.’

‘Case closed then.’ Vinius shrugged. Refastening his cloak toggles, he appeared to be leaving. ‘Sorry. Mistrust festers, until even the innocent are seen as guilty. The worst is, it takes almost nothing to make you feel guilty.’

‘It must be hard to do your job,’ sneered Lucilla.

‘Better I do it, than somebody less scrupulous,’ said Gaius briefly, as he left her alone on the wet terrace.

Perhaps he really believed that.

She called after him from the doorway. ‘I thought you might mention artichokes!’

All the family indoors were listening. Gaius gave her a pleading look that had been known to win over the sternest of aunts. ‘An accident. I just couldn’t resist. I had hoped my replacement met your schedule of reparations.’

‘Nobody buys me!’ Lucilla hooted.

Pretty well everyone else in Rome was being bought. Vinius Clodianus was fielding accusations more often than he liked his friends and family to know. Having to keep secrets from your own circle was part of the insidious process. He tried only to take action when he thought action was justified, but sometimes he was given orders from above against his inclinations. If people were guilty, he supported arrests. But sometimes it went too far, he had to admit.

Informing ran through society from highest to lowest level. At the top, where Clodianus was little involved, were members of Domitian’s own council, senators who had been informers under Nero or advisers to Vespasian; some now claimed to have given up, yet remained as shadowy presences behind the scenes. Domitian encouraged senators to accuse one another; he liked the divisiveness. A stigma attached to great men who indulged in prosecutions against their equals. If encouraged by the Emperor, that stigma disappeared, so a star orator might put himself at Domitian’s service almost on a salaried basis. To challenge such activities would question the legitimacy of Domitian’s regime. Few attempted it. Lower down society snuck weasels who would independently lay an information in the hope of being allowed to prosecute for profit, or who even sometimes named names anonymously. These professionals came from all levels, including very baseborn profiteers. Clodianus saw their work all too often.

Sometimes an informer’s involvement was casual. Every evening the actor Latinus would drop by the imperial quarters while Domitian was relaxing, and amuse him with the day’s gossip. Names to investigate then came into the Praetorian office the next morning on chits from Domitian’s palace freedmen.

At the lowest end of society were slaves who betrayed their masters and mistresses. Strictly speaking, it was illegal for slaves to act as witnesses against their owners, but a device had always existed to get around that; they were first bought by the state, using compulsory purchase orders. Although penalties for disloyal slaves were severe, in practice they stood to gain large financial rewards, plus their freedom. One harsh word at home could make them eager for that.

Domitian used defecting slaves as a constant resource nowadays. No one was safe from hostile eyes in the dining room, hostile ears in the bedroom. Clodianus was not obliged to involve himself in domestic enquiries, the Urban Cohorts did that; but as ex-vigiles his expertise had been recognised. He could give the Urbans a steer about which doors to knock on, when the door should be kicked down instead, whether interviewing slaves in a discreet bar might work, or when the slaves should just be picked up and tortured without ceremony.

Although the moral conduct laws offered the most notorious possibilities, many other charges were made. It was not all bad news. Abuse of office had once been rife — either overseas governors who acted like bandits in their provinces or officials in Rome who took bribes. Proving bribery could be difficult because the donor had also committed an offence and if they achieved what they wanted, they kept quiet afterwards. In fact, Domitian’s reign showed a marked decline in abuses of office, due to his obsessive control over appointments.

Otherwise, the crimes Clodianus regularly looked into were usury (which was illegal but of course happened everywhere), inheritance fraud (often keeping quiet about a will in order to avoid paying tax), and religious deception; that mainly involved Jews who, for financial reasons, pretended not to be Jewish. A tax of two denarii per head was imposed on Jewish men, women, children and the elderly, and also converts; it was used to build and maintain the Capitoline Temple of Jupiter, a deliberate humiliation as it replaced a tithe previously paid by Jewish males to maintain their Temple in Jerusalem, which Titus had destroyed. Many tried to escape this tax. If there was no other solution, men’s tunics were lifted to see if they were circumcised.

There were fictitious adoptions or supposititious births (frauds for inheritance reasons, occasionally to conceal adultery, but sometimes just because a couple were childless). Absenting oneself from the Games or public feasts drew attention; maybe someone just had a reclusive nature or was easily bored, but it was viewed as a protest against the government. For a man to abstain from public office when he was qualified to stand looked similarly dubious, a subversive refusal to support Domitian — which he took personally. Publishing, or just privately writing, seditious or libellous material was inevitably fatal. Using magic (anything from witchcraft to mathematics), or possessing somebody else’s horoscope, especially that of the Emperor, was illegal and carried a scandalous frisson that enlivened a trial and generally guaranteed a conviction.

Many thought such cases involved unpalatable intrusion into domestic life. Once an informer had handed in a name to the authorities, even on a spurious excuse, investigation inevitably followed, often carried out with physical violence. Clodianus did not beat people up. He just sometimes gave the orders and occasionally had to watch.

There were risks. To make an accusation that could not be substantiated ultimately ran up big financial penalties, plus lasting disrepute. In order to be seen cleaning up the courts, Domitian made a point of being harsh with informers who laid false claims. To expose rotten prosecutors suited his austere image of himself, however guilty he was of the same evil. Danger from Domitian’s judicial rigour threatened even the highest; a potentially illustrious career could be ruined by one misjudged court case.

On the other hand, lucrative careers were made out of prosecuting malicious informers…

Vinius Clodianus thought himself dispassionate. He genuinely fought the temptation to slip over the boundary from fairness into something much blacker. It would have been easy for him to become corrupt. That threatened to happen over Flavia Lucilla’s ex-husband, the second time she and Clodianus clashed about his work. With so many victims being denounced, endless people feared they might come under suspicion after some slip-up. One, it transpired, being Nemurus.

Domitian’s annual games at Alba in honour of his patron goddess Minerva were close to his heart. That March, Statius had submitted a poem called de Bello Germanico, ‘On the German War’, a honeyed paean to the new conqueror of the Chatti and Dacians. Its author was thrilled when he won the poetry prize and received a scintillating gold wreath from Domitian’s own hand.

The Capitoline Games in Rome in October were a much grander occasion. These were a revival of ancient festivities, the famous Naples Games which had ceased to be held after the eruption of Vesuvius. Modelled by Domitian on the Greek Olympics, they were held every four years in Rome and lasted sixteen days. Competitors came from all over the Empire. Statius absolutely expected to repeat his success in the Latin poetry section, hoping to beat off scores of rivals and win international acclaim. He thought Domitian was his patron, not seeing that Domitian’s sponsorship could be capricious. For one thing, the Emperor loathed any suspicion that his actions could be predicted. Once it was assumed he favoured any individual, that person was finished.

Statius was stunned when this time he failed to win. He was so devastated, it would drive him home to Naples, abandoning the stress of competition. That caused family problems, because his wife Claudia was reluctant to leave Rome; her daughter was sixteen, a talented musician making a career, entirely the wrong age to be left alone. But once Statius felt he had lost Domitian’s patronage, retirement seemed the safe option. At least Domitian never turned on him. Statius would now quietly teach, write his intended masterpiece about Achilles, and publish poems he had previously only circulated informally.

From the moment Statius lost the prize, his friends were unsettled. Lucilla learned that some were questioning their safety. Even Nemurus thought he was vulnerable, despite the fact teachers were generally respected. Domitian, who remained childless with Domitia, had recently named two young sons of his cousin Flavia Domitilla as his heirs and made much of appointing the grammarian Quintilian to be their tutor at court. Quintilian was an advocate and rhetorician, the first to be awarded a state salary, under Vespasian. After teaching for twenty years, in a school that had brought him unusual wealth, he retired to write a groundbreaking treatise on rhetoric; it defied contemporary taste by favouring content over style, it was a treasure trove of sane rules for composition, humane advice to teachers and good sense.

When Quintilian was made imperial tutor, Nemurus was vain enough to be jealous. Lucilla had heard about it from friends, laughing because anyone could see Nemurus was not in the same league. Lucilla ran into him at the Capitoline Games, when the old literary group clustered to commiserate with Statius after his loss. Milling among them was her ex-husband.

Nemurus approached Lucilla with a manner so friendly she was suspicious at once. He had even brought her a present: Ovid’s love poems. The gift itself was unexpected, and it seemed an odd choice.

‘I should never have insisted you return all the books I had lent you, dear. I am proud to have fostered your love for reading. This is a peace offering.’ Lucilla had worked at the court long enough; she recognised a bribe. ‘Please, I need to talk to you… In private.’

Curiosity made her agree. As it seemed so urgent, they left the others temporarily and walked off together outside the theatre in the centre of Rome where the poetry contest had been held. Though October, the night was mild and the atmosphere civilised. They found a bench.

‘This is a delicate…’ Sighing, Lucilla waited for details. ‘They are rounding up philosophers and exiling them.’

It was not new. Even in Vespasian’s time it had happened. New expulsions were imposed by Domitian last year, with the philosopher Epictetus among his victims. More seemed unavoidable. One reason was that a hardened group of Flavian opponents, connected with the stoics, routinely insulted whoever was emperor. They had tackled Vespasian then Titus; Domitian must be due his turn — and like his predecessors, sooner or later he would be driven to react.

Nemurus, a stoic himself, was highly agitated. ‘I need a favour. Spies are everywhere. If anybody questions you about me, will you say that I only teach literature? That I never touch philosophy?’

‘Come clean: what have you done, Nemurus?’

‘After our divorce, perhaps unwisely I decided to devote myself to philosophy — which is of course merely the pursuit of a virtuous life.’

‘Who could argue with that?’ Lucilla knew the authorities did.

Shyly, Nemurus owned up: ‘For a time, I let my hair grow. I had a beard and wore the philosopher’s robe. I even refused to eat meat, and only took what nature gives us without the need to kill fellow creatures.’

Lucilla tried not to laugh. People had told her Nemurus was despondent after she left him, yet becoming a vegetarian and wearing a long beard seemed an extreme reaction to divorce. ‘How Greek! But, sadly for my profession, there is no law against terrible hair.’

‘Please do not joke. My beard may have been noticed by the wrong people.’

‘Well, dear, I can truthfully say I knew nothing about it.’ Lucilla wondered what Nemurus looked like with a beard — and winced. ‘But why would anybody ask me?’

She saw Nemurus’ face cloud. ‘Your Praetorian Guard might take a vindictive interest.’

‘No! He has no reason to pick on you.’

‘He was staring at us earlier outside the theatre,’ Nemurus insisted. Lucilla thought he must have imagined this. ‘It is not the first time he imposed his baleful presence!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Once he marched into a lecture I was giving.’

‘Vinius?’

‘Had to be him. One-eyed man, scowling like thunder. Came and sat at the back.’

‘So what was your lecture?’ demanded Lucilla, in amazement.

‘On metre. “Dactylic Hexameters or Hendecasyllabic Iambs? Epic glide or elective limp — the poet’s dilemma”.’

When talking informally, Lucilla knew, Nemurus had insightful views on how poets chose their metre and line length. Given wine, he could even be amusing on scansion. Set on a public platform, however, he was a nervy speaker, who muttered down at his notes even though he was trying to show off. She commented with a smile, ‘That must have been uncomfortable — for both of you.’

‘He did not linger!’ Nemurus admitted.

They had been married, successfully at one time. Now anybody watching would have seen them burst into shared laughter, ruefully and with their heads together, like children giggling at a rude word.

‘Well,’ Lucilla assured him kindly, ‘I shall protect you. But Vinius and I are not as close as you think. We never even speak these days.’

‘I find that odd.’ Nemurus sounded sarcastic, as he rose to depart. ‘Especially as the man is standing in the shadows over there, observing us right now.’

Lucilla refused to look that way, but she made a point of jumping up and kissing Nemurus on the cheek before he left her. Startled, he made a clumsy half-response, but she dodged that and sat down again.

She remained waiting on the bench, pulling her light stole up over her hair and rearranging the bangles on her arm.

As she expected, Vinius came into the open and marched over.

‘Cosy scene. Does he want you back? He bears gifts, I see!’

‘Rather out of character. There must have been a remainder sale.’ This was disloyal to Nemurus but Lucilla hoped to distract Vinius. ‘Ovid. The Art of Love contains advice for women on how to look attractive — “a round-faced girl should pile her hair in a topknot” — hardly news to a trained hairdresser.’ At the end of the poem, Lucilla happened to know, were extremely frank lists of positions for lovemaking. Some she would never have thought of. Most seemed feasible. She wondered: had Nemurus been using this book as pornography? ‘This will interest you, Vinius — Ovid was exiled, for mysterious reasons, which may involve promiscuous relations with the Emperor Augustus’ raunchy daughter. They stuck him in Tomis which is, I believe, at the far edge of Dacia.’

‘Poor bloody bugger!’ exclaimed Vinius forcefully.

Lucilla tightened her grip on the scroll and rattled her bangles again. ‘Why are you spying on my ex-husband?’

‘The man does not concern me.’

‘So I told him. But you once went into a lecture he gave?’

‘Just curious. When you were married, did you have to knit his socks?’

Lucilla tried not to react. ‘His mother makes them. Vinius, don’t menace him; leave him alone, will you?’

‘Oh, have I got him worried?’ demanded Gaius cheerfully.

‘Don’t abuse your office. I rely on you to be fair.’

‘Fair?’ Rely?

‘Your decency was the first thing that struck me when you worked with the vigiles. Vinius, I want to believe in you. There have to be good men, when everyone swims in a sewer of treachery.’

Gaius listened, looking unemotional.

‘I wish you were back there,’ Lucilla told him in a morose voice. ‘You made your own choices. You were aware of human failings, yet you stood for enlightenment. You were honest. You were even kindly.’

‘Within reason.’

‘I would take your reason over Domitian’s fake benevolence any day. Don’t lose your humanity.’

‘You think I changed?’

‘Dacia changed you.’

‘ You changed me.’

‘Do not blame me. Working for the Emperor is your own choice.’

Gaius thought Lucilla’s assessment was right. Society had tipped up and gone topsy-turvy. While Domitian pretended to nurture correct behaviour, he undermined it. Everyone now behaved like shits. As the despot supposedly reinforced Rome’s moral system, he was destroying it. He, Vinius Clodianus, was helping. He was an instrument of the police state. He had taken the oath. He accepted the not inconsiderable money. He followed orders.

In doing so, had he lost his own values and his independence?

Lucilla stood and began to walk away. She did not give Vinius the farewell kiss she had given Nemurus; Vinius noted that bitterly. As she marched off to find her friends again, he called out one last appeal.

‘Flavia Lucilla! I don’t suppose you have ever considered that somewhere in all the years we have known one another, I might have fallen in love with you?’

Lucilla stopped and looked back. Since people had told her he was still married to Caecilia, this soul-baring did not endear him. ‘Never!’

‘You might give it thought.’

The last thing Gaius wanted as he strode away in the opposite direction was for a wraith to manifest itself among the monumental architecture, then to be confronted by her bloody husband.

‘Clodianus!’ cried the ghastly Nemurus, as he popped up like a ghost in a bad Saturnalia story. ‘I take it amiss that you destroyed my marriage, stole away my wife — yet you have not had the decency to make her happy.’

The man was ludicrous. When seen close up he was also much younger than the fusty, self-neglecting academic that Vinius wanted to envisage. Nemurus must be similar in age to Lucilla. He looked as if he might even throw a ball around at the gym, though probably one stuffed with feathers. He bit his fingernails, perhaps absent-mindedly while reading.

‘Not my fault!’ retorted Vinius. ‘I would have taken her on — the poor girl deserves some excitement — but she loathes what I stand for.’

‘I heard that,’ Nemurus exulted. Vinius cursed. It was doubly annoying for a spying Guard to discover he had been spied on. ‘You need public speaking lessons. Decorum, man! Telling a woman you love her ought to be an act of worship — not hurled at her as a punishment.’

This was where Vinius became tempted to abuse his power. He was too frustrated to hold back. He lowered his voice and threatened Nemurus: ‘ I have seen your name on a list. ’

Nemurus, no actor, was visibly perturbed.

‘Luckily for you, it is not my list.’

Nemurus could not know whether to believe this: if any list really existed; if so, what list it was, or whose; or what Vinius proposed to do about it. That was how fear worked these days.

Whether or not Nemurus had been denounced, his panic told Vinius that he must be guilty of something, even if it was unprovable chicken-stealing. Nemurus had just given himself away before he was even under suspicion.

‘I do not descend to the personal,’ claimed Vinius piously. ‘If I am ordered to exterminate you, you’re done for. But I don’t lean on people without evidence. What is your secret, by the way? — I bet I know. I bet you are an undercover republican. Or are you a conspiratorial philosopher? What’s your fancy? Cynic? Sophist? Stoic?’

‘I am slightly unnerved to think of the Guards studying ethics.’

‘You would be surprised!’ Vinius boasted with relish. ‘Know yourself, the old sphinx said — and I say, know your enemy. I produced a memo only the other day to warn my troops that not all philosophers wear convenient beards, so watch out for a devious mentality too. For example, we know the stoic creed is avoidance of anger, envy and jealousy… Would that apply to you?’

He had guessed right — not difficult, because most educated Romans with a liberal outlook were apt to call themselves stoics.

‘How can I look at you and set aside those regrettable emotions?’ Nemurus fought back.

‘Believe me, I see you and feel anger in enthusiastic quantities — though I am not troubled by envy and jealousy,’ returned Vinius as spitefully as possible. ‘Sadly, Flavia Lucilla has enough reasons to despise me. Perhaps I shall not add another by arresting you.’

Perhaps…

Nemurus tried to engage him: ‘Flavia Lucilla assures me you are not malicious.’

This was what nobody could know about anyone any more. Who would act ethically? Who would destroy others before others could destroy them? Who would do it for a vengeful reason? For amusement? For the Emperor’s favour? For money? Or to save their own neck? Who for no reason at all?

Vinius laughed bitterly. ‘Oh she thinks me a dumb soldier.’

Nemurus looked him up and down. He raised one eyebrow; he did it far too archly, being awkward socially.

‘ Does she?’

He taught oratory. As a young man, he himself had taken lessons at the fine Quintilian school. He knew how to pose a rhetorical question to be subtly destructive, causing doubt to linger with his hearer for a long time afterwards.