Master and God

26

The House of the Vestals lay towards the southern end of the Forum. Its enclosed precinct contained a large quiet garden among colonnades, with accommodation for the six Virgins, who lived there throughout their thirty years of service, only leaving if they were taken so ill they must be nursed by a respectable matron in her home. Some stayed even after they retired. No men were allowed in the Vestals’ house; the precinct was locked up at night as a precaution.

The small round Temple of Vesta stood just outside in its own enclosure. Across the Sacred Way, the odd-shaped triangular college of pontiffs completed the religious sanctum, buildings whose origins, perhaps as a palace in the days of the old Roman kings, were long lost. A delicate contrast to that jumbled group, the beautiful white marble temple had no cult statue. It did contain the sacred fire and the palladium, a venerated object of uncertain form which had supposedly come from Troy and which, like the flame, symbolised the health and survival of Rome. It was secret; nobody ever saw it. Clodianus thought that, given what the Greeks did to Troy after they got in with the Wooden Horse, the palladium’s efficiency as a form of protection might be questioned. He did not voice this outrage. Standing among a subdued crowd at the end of the Forum, his role was to prevent trouble, not cause a revolution.

This was a very ancient area. Rituals carried out by pontiffs and Vestals were the oldest, and occasionally the oddest, the Roman people still followed. The daily procedures of the Vestals went back deeply into history and myth: carrying water, tending fire, cleansing, and making ritual salt cakes. Today’s archaic punishment belonged with that tradition, a tradition rooted in darkness and retribution just as much as the Vestals’ life was central to survival and hope.

The Forum had long been the starting point of funerals for aristocrats. Here many a noble family would still bring a bier with the dead body of their loved one lying on a costly mattress among precious spices — a consul or general, or even a great lady who had married famously and endowed provincial temples. They would assemble their procession of mourners, with musicians, masks of their ancestors, irreverent clowns mocking the life and characteristics of the dead. Here they would hear a public eulogy, before wending their way by torchlight and amidst the sound of flutes to their chosen great necropolis on one of the major arteries out of Rome; there the corpse would be cremated and its ashes collected in a costly urn of porphyry or alabaster, to be kept forever in the family mausoleum and, at least in theory, regularly visited.

Today there was no corpse. Instead of an open bier, a tall closed litter was carried from the House of the Vestals. It arrived without the normal ceremonies and a leaden silence greeted its appearance. Everyone knew that Cornelia was there inside, though the interior was hidden by heavy coverings and the coverings had been tightly fastened down with cords. People made way. As a procession formed, those who were most curious followed in gloomy silence. If Cornelia’s birth family were present, the observing Praetorian could not identify them. The other five Vestals stayed in their house. Her lovers, if such they had been, would definitely not be paying respects.

Activity in the Forum ceased. Idlers playing board-games on basilica steps, entrepreneurs fleecing contacts in the shade under ancient arches, patrons and their struggling clients who had met beside water bowls or the Golden Milestone, all stopped gossip and negotiation. Workers high up on the scaffold that housed the nearly completed statue of Domitian on horseback gazed down with curiosity. The courts were closed. Trade ended. Even bankers took a pause. If prostitutes continued their crude business at the back of temples, they did so furtively. Despondency fell upon everyone, like a cold shadow when the sun passed behind a cypress tree.

The sombre procession set off. After crossing the Forum, participants travelled on foot to the far edge of the city; homes and businesses were shuttered all along the journey and people stood, mute and unhappy, while the severe cortege slowly passed. Its destination was beyond the Praetorian Camp, where the ancient embankment called the Servian Walls was broken at the Colline Gate, as the Via Nomentana emerged from Rome. Outside the walls was the Praetorian Campus, the Guards’ massive parade ground, empty today. Inside the walls was an area of unused, scrubby ground called the Campus Sceleratus, which meant profaned, criminal, accursed, polluted. In this bleak haunt, guilty Vestals were entombed.

Vinius Clodianus was glad to see the public slaves had done their job; the vagrants and stray dogs had been moved on, the clutter and windblown detritus that gathers at such isolated places had been collected and cleared. There were no dumps of broken amphorae, burned-out carts, halves of dead sheep or abandoned shoes. A couple of extremely old whores who liked to sit around a bonfire offering migrant workers either a bunk-up or mild fortune-telling were keeping away today. He had personally suggested that the aediles responsible for street affairs should sign a petty cash voucher for the women’s all-day bar bill.

Into the earth bank, a small chamber had already been dug. Temporary steps led down inside. At the bottom were a covered couch, a lighted lamp, and very small quantities of bread, water, milk and oil. This symbolic sustenance exonerated everyone from causing a Vestal Virgin’s death. They would not last her long. At some point, presumably, fresh air would run out. The lamp would falter. Perhaps before that, panic would set in. Possibly madness. For anyone who thought about it too much, this inescapable entombment in darkness and silence was horrific, the most terrifying human fear.

A second covered litter had turned up from out of town. It halted, as if the occupant was watching, though the dark curtains never seemed to move. Gaius guessed who was lurking. He gave the Guards a discreet nod.

Upon the Vestal’s arrival, the cords on her litter were released by the chief priest of the old religion, the Flamen Dialis. He and his fourteen colleagues had assembled in their traditional hairy woollen cloaks and leather skullcaps, each with a tuft of wool and pointed prong of olive wood, items of long-forgotten significance. They were the archaic face of Roman religion, as the Vestals were themselves.

The convicted woman emerged stiffly, while priests enacted mysterious ritual gestures and prayers; Gaius reckoned those were really intended to stiffen the priests’ own resolve. She was not bound or chained. For one thing, that would cut across the complicated rules imposed on the Flamen Dialis, who was never allowed to see anyone in chains; by tradition, he could not even wear a finger ring.

Heavily veiled, Cornelia advanced to the steps, where unfortunately her gown caught on a splinter. An attendant moved to help unfasten it but, professional to the end, the Virgin beat him off with a shudder of disgust, unwilling to be defiled by a man’s touch.

The Guards stood together in a small group, as respectful as a prisoner escort can be under the discipline of an execution. They were iron-jawed and so rigid they seemed corseted, all masters of making their very impassivity reveal distaste. Less clear was whether their distaste was for what Cornelia had done, or simply for today’s events.

Cornelia behaved with nobility, at least in the subsequent judgement of male intellectuals. Pliny, a prig devoid of emotional imagination (who had not been present), later reported this occasion to add a sensational touch to his published letters, yet with no real sense of its sordid tragedy. It was a miserable twilight scene. Every participant who walked away afterwards would be permanently soiled.

She did not go quietly. She had been refused the right to defend herself in court, but nobody would physically gag a Vestal, so she had her moment. After calling for assistance from Vesta and all the other gods, Cornelia shouted to the assembled men (they were all men): ‘How can the Emperor imagine I would have broken my vows, when it was I who performed the sacred rites that brought him his victories?’

This subtle undermining of Domitian’s cherished role as conqueror convinced many people that Cornelia was innocent. Had she been unchaste, surely the gods would not have responded to her ritual prayers and sacrifices when she begged for military success? The Chatti, Marcomanni and Dacians would never have succumbed. Her purity could be presumed, therefore, and it made a bitter contrast to the hypocritical licence of the Emperor, who many believed had seduced his own niece, perhaps causing Julia’s death with an enforced abortion.

Cornelia had the last word. Perhaps she guessed that her cry would resonate from the verge of the tomb, one bitter sliver of self-defence that Domitian could never silence.

She took her time. Well, why not?

The watching cornicularius felt most nervous at this moment: what if this robust Chief Vestal refused to descend underground? If she would not cooperate, he foresaw that the situation might deteriorate. Getting her down the ghastly hole was up to the priests, whom he sized up with a sinking heart. They were inbred patricians, men who were neither young nor in any way handy. Slaves did everything for them. Most could barely lift a finger to scratch their own dandruff.

Indeed, wondered Gaius glumly, who in his senses, priest or otherwise, would try to manhandle a furious mature woman, who had spent nearly thirty years having her own way? He would certainly not order any of his men to corner her, grab her, strike her, push her or otherwise force her onto those insecure wooden steps. This was one situation where he himself would not volunteer either.

Fortunately, Cornelia was conditioned to comply with rituals. She protested her innocence loudly enough, but made no attempt to dig in her heels or thrash about.

The priests averted their gaze. The Vestal, who could never have been on a ladder before, climbed down; she tumbled the final distance, but managed to control her garments to preserve her dignity. Those who did look (Clodianus and anonymous public slaves who had to do the manual work today) glimpsed not so much as an ankle. The steps were pulled up quickly. Heavy loads of earth were piled over the entrance. The soil was beaten flat, levelled with the remainder of the embankment, so in years to come once the ground-cover grew back, the location of the chamber would be permanently lost.

Lost? Oh, be reasonable! thought Gaius tetchily. He had noticed the city surveyor had sent a representative; in that practical department they would need a discreet mark on their charts, for whenever the old embankment had to be maintained. Even the priests would want to avoid the bad omen of turning up a skeleton, supposing they ever had to bury another culprit.

The black-covered litter with the anonymous occupant had already gone, heading out of Rome. The priests removed themselves from the scene promptly. Off for a stiff drink in one of those putrid pontiffs’ fancy dining rooms, no doubt. The chief of them, the Flamen Dialis, was bound by a ridiculous system of prohibitive rules for his daily life, but presumably nothing barred him from a very strong restorative after he had buried a woman alive. His wife, the Chief Priestess, would have known Cornelia well, so he might be going home to a very frosty atmosphere.

The Praetorians remained discreetly at the lonely scene. They would deter any rescue; none was attempted. They would observe whether the goddess Vesta resurrected the virgin who had been consecrated to her for so many years, as a sign that Cornelia was innocent. As Gaius expected, all the gods chose to abandon her.

A small detachment guarded the Campus Sceleratus for days. Since normal funeral ceremonies were forbidden, anyone who attempted to lay flowers or tributes was prevented; not many tried. Vestals might be honoured women, but they were haughty and self-important, therefore more revered than loved. Veiled elderly women of all ranks appeared occasionally and were persuaded to go home. A few passers-by came up to make enquiries, though nobody wanted to gossip with Praetorians. No one wanted to attract their attention. People were afraid it might get them arrested.

The Guards’ task was grim but at least when the watch changed, the Camp was nearby. Details marched to and fro quietly, and since their own parade ground was immediately the other side of the Colline Gate, they were virtually at home and often their abnormal duties went unnoticed by the public.

Vinius Clodianus attended the scene as much as possible. When he was desperate for rest, he slept at the Camp. He ate and bathed there. He visited his office daily to check correspondence. He made no move to go into the city, even when by any standards he had the right to be off duty.

It was a draining vigil. The soldiers were well able to imagine what was happening underground.

Eventually there could no longer be any hope of life. Without being required to check the tomb, the guard was quietly stood down. Clodianus returned to his office where he wrote a short, clear report, should anybody want it, to state that the dismal episode had passed off without incident.

He took himself to the Praetorian baths, where he scraped himself over and over again with a strigil as if it was he who had been defiled. He sat in the steam in the hot room trying to cleanse his spirit. Inertia claimed him for a while, but eventually he pulled himself out of that.

Then will you be coming home?

I will.

When Gaius walked into the apartment, Lucilla took in quickly that he had bathed and changed. He was in a white tunic that looked old and comfortable, with a civilian belt, and apparently unarmed. The back of his head was wet, since tough men rarely towel-dry their hair. They claim you cannot catch a cold that way, and are always surprised when they do.

‘Is it finished?’

He merely grunted.

‘Do you want anything?’

A shake of the head, only just short of annoyance. He went into his room, closing the doors. Their rules forbade her to follow.

Lucilla addressed the dog clearly, so Gaius had to hear: ‘Bad grumpy Master! Anyone would think I had married him!’

No sound came from inside the room, but perhaps he was grinning.

Despite his refusal, she prepared him food: a segment of loaf, filled with sliced cooked meat and gherkins; half a cup of wine; a full beaker of water; figs in a saucer. With this snack on a small tray, she knocked firmly and, without waiting for permission, entered his sanctum.

Gaius was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head down, completely slumped. Lucilla walked around him and placed the tray on a small table he had recently bought, marble, one leg shaped like a dolphin. The dog, who recognised a food tray, came in eagerly, claws scratching the wooden floorboards.

‘No, leave Master. Let him settle. Come on out; you are going to see Glyke.’

Before she left, she brushed one hand briefly over Gaius’ clean, springy hair. ‘Ignore me then! I could dance off in a huff. But I’m just going to the baths, Gaius.’

He had not moved. He was taut, morose, a man who had come in from his work, still worked up over a project he had hated. But that was temporary. Gaius would soon be himself again. Lucilla was tolerating this mood because she understood him; equally, he was allowing her to manage him because she had that understanding. They knew each other inside out, like people who already lived together.

When the front door had closed behind her, Gaius raised his head, letting the silence of the apartment seep into him. His movements were slow, yet relaxed. He ate the bread and meat, though left the wine, also the figs, but gradually drained the whole beaker of water. Then he lay on his bed resting, while he waited for Lucilla to come home to him.

There were two tacticians in their relationship. Now Lucilla not only left the watchdog with Glyke and Calliste in the shop, but made arrangements for the girls to forestall her clients tomorrow morning. They exchanged looks; she ignored that.

She went through the baths hurriedly: warm room, hot steam, cold plunge. She strigilled the oil off for herself, talked to no one and refused the masseuse.

Back at the apartment, all was quiet. No sound came from Gaius, though he had evidently been about. It was late enough to need light in the corridor so he had placed a pottery oil lamp on the shelf in front of the Lares. Lucilla lit another lamp, which she took to her room. She left the door open. Other than that she made no overtures to Gaius. The next move was up to him.

When he appeared in the doorway, it was the first time, to Lucilla’s knowledge, he had ever seen her bedroom. Gaius smiled slightly, entering her private place. She watched him look around, inspecting everything. In his room, the bed was close against the wall, but Lucilla had hers positioned centrally, with purple and black striped rugs either side. There were rather good cupboards, with panelled doors, curved legs and pointed pedestals. A folding stool, composed of slats, sat in front of a side-table where she kept her personal cosmetics, pins, perfumes, combs and ornaments. The window shutters were half open. For his own reasons, Gaius went and closed them.

She had not tidied specially. Things were neat but casual. Her clothes from today were piled on a chest, except a light undertunic she was still modestly wearing. She was lying on her bed, barefoot, ankles crossed, hands folded at her waist, as if she had just spent a long time thinking. She was lying on her hair too, its vibrant chestnut length well combed, but simply tied on the nape of her neck with a snaggle of blue ribbon. It was the first time for many years Gaius had seen her as she was, with neither face paints nor jewellery, and her hair only one tug away from flowing out freely.

He too was now clad only in an unbleached undertunic, and shoeless. Seeing his bare feet for the first time, Lucilla rather liked them: the well-kept feet of a soldier who regularly practice-marched twenty miles and could not afford to get blisters. The tension had drained out of him, though he still looked weary. He tipped his head on one side and gave her a soft look while he said, ‘I would really like your company.’

Lucilla nodded.

Gaius came to the free side of her bed. He lay down alongside her, mimicking her pose with hands demurely folded. Neither was quite sure of the other, yet nothing seemed to need explaining.

Lucilla’s bed possessed only one pillow. She had most of it. Masterful, Gaius pulled more to his side. Lucilla hoiked it back. Gaius reprised his tug. Lucilla gave in and angled her head towards him, so they were sharing.

‘Come here,’ said Gaius. ‘Come properly.’

‘Properly’ meant tucked up against his side with his arm around her and her head on his shoulder, nuzzling his neck, absorbing his warmth and his familiar scent. He had put back the weight and muscle he had lost as a prisoner. His ribs, hip and thigh were solid to lie against; the clasp of his arm, though casual, was strong.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

‘You were upset.’

‘No, I mean sorry about everything.’

Lucilla hugged him closer. Then she stretched up, turned his face towards her with one palm, and kissed him quietly. Gaius was welcoming, though seemed restrained.

Had he never recovered? Was he incapable? She feared the worst. He read her thoughts: ‘I don’t know. I never tried. I only wanted you.’

Despite years of hairdressing gossip, Lucilla realised she had no idea how to deal with this. One false move could be fatal, she guessed. She let him lead.

‘Too tired.’ Gaius shelved the issue. ‘Here is my plan: we will lie here like this, cosy and comforting. In due course we’ll sleep. When we wake, we’ll do it.’

Lucilla teased him: ‘Does everything in your life have to have an agenda?’

‘Nothing beats it,’ Gaius assured her gravely. He ticked off items: ‘Opening remarks. Snuggle. Sleep. Love you. Any other business

…’

Lucilla accepted it, settling against him as if this had been her place for years. His hand struggled under the neck of her tunic, not exploring, not sensual, simply seeking her shoulder’s bare skin. She curled her own hand lightly around his wrist. It was the touch of ownership, on both sides. They lay together, relieved, relaxed, contented, resting.

Time passed. They did not sleep. Neither could bear to lose the intensity of this companionship.

Gaius moved. It seemed more than a readjustment for comfort, and at Lucilla’s small murmur, he gathered her so they could kiss again. His lips tasting hers were positive; some decision had been reached. Her heartbeats speeded. Still mouth to mouth, Gaius rolled them, so Lucilla was in the position that would always be her favourite, feeling his weight on her. He was tender, appreciative, leisurely but purposeful. She had no doubt where he was taking them.

As a master logistician, Gaius removed his clothes and hers, somehow without spoiling the moment. Taking his time, he positioned Lucilla and himself as he wanted them to be. ‘Never fear. The omens are promising.’

‘Omens?’ She kept it light. ‘You went to a priest, Gaius?’

She felt him shudder; he had had enough priests at the Campus Sceleratus to last him a lifetime. ‘You sent me to a doctor.’

‘ Sent you?’

‘I’m obedient. Take the auguries yourself.’ He moved Lucilla’s hand down so she could see there was no problem now. She heard him gasp and felt him tense as she touched him. Neither could bear to wait.

‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

They gasped slightly, as they always would, at the moment they joined together. An exquisite welcome, which they would never take for granted.

On that first return to each other, they made love as their ancestors the old Romans must have done, when the man came in weary from ploughing and the woman who tended his hearth welcomed him in their rustic bed before they slept. Nothing fancy, nothing too drawn out. The straightforward unashamed pleasure of two people who would share life as long as they were allowed to do so.

There would be other times to be adventurous, for more extended passion, for raucousness and ribaldry. This was the uncomplicated, intimate communion of a couple who liked to end their day by expressing their love.