Master and God

28

They would have five years as lovers in Plum Street. More than most lovers could hope for. In their city’s political history those were dreadful times, but people could, if they were careful, find normal human happiness. The apartment Lucilla and Gaius shared had always seemed isolated from the world’s troubles. Even though Lucilla worked there, once customers left it was domestic and private; for Gaius it had long been his secret refuge.

They saw each other regularly now. When they did, everything seemed quite natural. As other people noticed them as a couple, Lucilla was surprised how little they commented.

‘They all think we’ve been sleeping and living together for years,’ explained Gaius.

Lucilla was indignant. ‘Who says so? Who thinks that?’

‘Anyone who has ever seen us in the same room together, precious.’

The first time he came back after spending time at the Camp, Lucilla heard him fuss the dog and ask, ‘Where is she then?’ in a familiar way that brought a lump to her throat. He only kissed her quickly on the forehead, taking himself off to dump a parcel of shellfish then wash his hands before he really gave attention to her. When he did, his affection was unforced.

Despite all he promised, she had been torn between belief in his return and doubt. ‘Hey! I’m a soldier — don’t cry on me; you’ll break my heart… You knew I would come back.’

‘Yes.’

‘Better like it then, because I can’t keep away from you.’

She would not cry next time.

This was good. Gaius was a householder coming home with their supper, which he had chosen and which, she guessed, he would insist on cooking, since frying up a batch of prawns with garlic had to be man’s work. Lucilla would edge around him in the tiny kitchen, preparing other things for the meal, sharing the tasks without needing to consult. Now they were lovers they could squeeze in together, the more intimate the better. They touched all the time. It was more than reassurance; they liked to be in continual contact.

This was how life would be. Lucilla realised with a thump in the chest that overnight they had become one unit. They were friends, lovers, partners, co-conspirators against everyone else. They would eat together this evening, drink a little wine, talk, complain about others, enjoy the evening twilight, then tidy the house, walk the dog, chat to neighbours, return home, conduct ablutions, go to bed cheerfully, and turn to one another between the sheets with wonderful excitement.

Lucilla had decided to avoid having children. They discussed it once, when she knew Gaius had seen what she was doing. She did believe he would look after her, and love any child they conceived together, yet there were uncertainties in his own profession and she still remembered his warning after Lara died about how children would affect her work. Besides, who wanted to bring a baby into Domitian’s Rome? It was no place for innocents.

Gaius seemed to accept her decision. At least he said so. Men could be sentimentalists. Men wanted heirs to continue their line. But he applied no pressure. The other thing about men was that, if they were honest about it which none of them were, they wanted their women to themselves. Lucilla had learned that wisdom from her customers.

Crucially, they both now discussed everything together. A definition of Roman marriage said a wife was the one person with whom a man shared his most intimate thoughts, thoughts he would not divulge even to his close male advisers, his amici. In Gaius’ case, his amici were his two brothers, his old vigiles comrade Scorpus, and his predecessor Septimus; he was restrained with fellow-officers because in any organisation a good chief-of-staff trusts nobody. Gaius admitted, at least to himself, he had never shared much with his wives. By agreement he and Lucilla would not call themselves married. But he confided totally in her now, and she did the same with him. They discussed work, politics, society, their neighbourhood, family matters, friends, music and literature, absolutely everything. Many a conversation was held on their balcony, in the room with their reading couch, while out walking, in bed. Neither had been known for talking, but when they were together they talked to each other constantly.

Perhaps they talked too much. Where so much was said, if ever some topic was to be kept unmentioned the silence would be telling.

They laughed a great deal. Sometimes an outsider would be hard pushed to know why. Their amusement was based on a shared opinion that most of the world was ridiculous, but it also derived from the complex weave of their past conversations. Sometimes they just looked at each other and laughed, without needing to speak.

Lucilla never went to the Camp. She knew what it was like: about two-thirds the size of a legionary fort, said Gaius (that meant little to her), with room for ten to twelve thousand men if needs be: a small army. Accommodation was packed in, with unique two-storeyed barracks and even extra buildings crammed against the inside walls in a way that would be unsafe in a campaign fort, where a clear berm was always left to catch enemy missiles and allow emergency manoeuvring. Lucilla knew the exterior, a mighty square beyond the north-eastern city gate, with red-brick-faced walls about ten feet high; these walls were not entirely daunting, yet their extreme solidity seemed forbidding, beside a city that was mainly unfortified. The Camp’s sheer size, with its massive parade ground outside, helped it dominate that area.

Gaius worked at the centre, on the main interior crossroads where all military forts had impressive command posts. His office adjoined the suite used by the Praetorian Prefects. Gaius saw that as only a mild disadvantage; if one of them dropped in for a moan about a colleague, he generally managed to stop picking his teeth before they noticed. If not, stuff them; it was his office. He had his own secretary, a couple of clerks and a runabout, whom Lucilla knew because that cross-eyed lad would sometimes be sent to let her know when Gaius intended to come to Plum Street. In his personal quarters, which had almost the space and amenities a cohort tribune would expect, a body servant looked after him, his uniform and his equipment.

Lucilla liked to think that since he left the liaison post, his work had changed. The Guards’ involvement in rooting out crimes continued, but she let herself believe Gaius spent more time on personnel issues, supervision of clerks, monitoring the savings bank and checking granary records. He was content to give the impression that his life was a long round of ordering new note tablets. He never wanted to worry her.

Their first year together passed quietly. Domitian’s huge equestrian statue was unveiled, so there was Praetorian interest in the formalities, but that was a passing excitement. They were not yet in what would be known as the Reign of Terror, but had certainly reached constant anxiety.

The Emperor liked inventive punishments. A senator and informer called Acilius Glabrio was summonsed to Alba and ordered to fight a huge arena lion single-handed in the small amphitheatre. Glabrio unexpectedly got the better of the lion. Domitian then exiled him. He had allegedly been stirring up revolution.

‘True?’ Lucilla asked Gaius.

‘Probably said the wrong thing a few times. Which of us hasn’t? It’s the lion I feel sorry for. He can’t have expected to lose.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

With her, Gaius allowed his conscience to show. ‘No. Good on Glabrio, for not consenting to get mauled — though much good it did the poor sod.’

Glabrio had been called back from exile and executed for ‘atheism’.

The following year a new war erupted on the Danube. Sarmatian tribesmen, the Iazyges from the great plains, joined with the Suebi and attacked Pannonia, wiping out the XXI Rapax legion. Once again, the Emperor put on uniform and went to war.

Domitian was away for a good eight months. This time, Gaius was not required to go. That meant eight months of comparative peace, although he did act as the absent Praetorians’ focal point for their communications with Rome. It was extra work, but work he relished. He dealt with correspondence swiftly and was able to spend more time than usual with Lucilla. They both enjoyed that, though they accepted this would be a limited treat.

Perhaps it made both of them consider having a full life together. A life where they lived in one home, as one domestic unit, all the time.

While Gaius was kicking his heels at the Camp, he sometimes mused over investment calculations. This, he knew, is traditional in bureaucracy where, when you are not scooping your ear wax, or reading love letters under the desk, naturally you work out financial projections for your retirement on the back of an old report. He began to correspond more closely about the import-export business in Hispania Tarraconensis that he had inherited from his old centurion, Decius Gracilis. He had never sold that; maybe an inspection trip over to Spain would be something to do if he ever retired. He certainly thought it a good idea to frighten the freedman he had inherited with that possibility. After he wrote to the manager, income picked up. Impressed, he even looked up Colonia Caesaraugusta on a map. Just in case.

He had served with the Praetorians now for almost thirteen years. If he wanted, he could leave after another three. He was thirty-six. In his prime, he reckoned, with years to come; even though many men never made it to his current age, he was still fit and full of energy.

He had been earning a high salary for a long time and had barely touched the money. It struck him that he and Lucilla could have a very pleasant life ahead of them. He told her. Seeing him as a dedicated career soldier, she did not take this too seriously, though she noted how Gaius was thinking.

Gaius had been involved in the flurry of intense commissariat activity that preceded the Emperor leaving on campaign; there were similar japes on Domitian’s return. The Emperor had been successful in quieting the Suebi and Sarmatians, although from intelligence coming back from the frontier, this was viewed as only a temporary respite. Military action along the Danube might continue for years. Indeed it did, though what Domitian had achieved would serve as a sound basis for future campaigns, one day to be immortalised on Trajan’s Column.

A Triumph was suggested for the January of Domitian’s return to Rome. But this time, even he took a muted view of his achievements; he only accepted the minor celebration called an Ovation. It involved some pageantry, in which Gaius was tangentially involved, and culminated in the Emperor dedicating a laurel wreath to Jupiter on the Capitol. It lacked the elaborate street procession of a full Triumph but, for the third time, Domitian handed out a congiarium of three hundred sesterces apiece, so as they clutched their big gold pieces the public were happy.

That year there was a serious grain shortage, with a long period of famine. Even the Praetorian cornicularius had to attend extra victualling meetings with a slightly furrowed brow; he had ten thousand men to feed daily, plus supplying horse fodder for fifteen hundred cavalry. If the military granary ran low, it would be grim. When Rome was short of food, supplying the Guards took some precedence, but that had to be handled carefully to avoid unrest. Good public relations in a time of distraught bread queues were essential. A cornicularius who had family in Rome could grasp the sensitivities.

For Gaius the grain shortage was an interesting aspect of his job. A political solution was not his remit, thankfully, but he was called to occasional tactics meetings. A Prefect of Supply had oversight of grain acquisition, markets and distribution, so at such mainly civic gatherings Gaius was an unimportant contributor, with his report scheduled last on the agenda, so it would be summed up in a minutes appendix if discussion overran. Nobody reads appendices.

‘Another action meeting,’ he would groan to Lucilla. ‘Memo: an “action meeting” is one where an “action list” will be produced, probably the same as last time — and resulting in no action.’ Like all the best administrators, his outlook was pessimistic. Like the very best, his office usually out-performed his cautious forecasts.

He learned more than he expected about the great provincial grain baskets that supplied Rome’s hungry mouths: the endless golden wheatfields of North Africa, which produced nearly two-thirds of the city’s requirements, and Egypt which sent a large contribution, with additions also from Spain, Sicily and Sardinia. He cared more than he had expected, too.

It made him think about the enormous trade in commodities around the Empire. Both necessities and luxuries were shipped and carted in all directions. Most Romans enjoyed the benefits automatically, especially since trade was barred to the senatorial class, so they loftily sneered at it. Clearly there was a packet to be made. A constant theme at the provisioning meetings was how to avoid speculation. How to encourage the provinces to grow and send what the great greedy city of Rome constantly needed. How to keep the negotiators and shippers sweet, especially since so many of those slippery buggers were foreign.

Vinius Clodianus was no snob and at heart he would always be a logistics man. He had learned that from his father, who as a vigiles tribune had kept order across two districts of Rome, balancing the needs of disparate communities and the differing demands of law and firefighting, balancing the books, keeping his superiors at a safe distance, keeping one jump in front of the criminal and corrupt, keeping his head. Glimpses of the business world brought Gaius back to his own small involvement in trade, with his inherited Spanish wine enterprise. He knew he could be an entrepreneur. He filed that thought away, though an intrigued Lucilla was watching him.

Eventually Domitian passed an edict that in order to encourage cereal production, no new vines could be planted in Italy, while in the provinces at least half of the existing acreage was to be torn up. On this almost unique occasion when Domitian ventured into legislating for the Empire as a whole, the plan failed to work. After petitions from the eastern provinces, the Emperor rescinded his edict.

Next, he tried a clear pavement law for Rome: the city was like a vast emporium, its highways clogged with barbers’ stools, vegetable stalls, money-changers’ tables, pots and baskets for sale. Goods hung off every pillar and awning. Most clutter was tawdry. Some was dangerous. Domitian passed a law that all this encroaching paraphernalia must be kept back behind the frontage line. That failed to bring him popularity, too.

Some people rejoiced that Rome had been restored to them; most bewailed the inconvenience and loss of character. In Plum Street, the previously spreading tables outside the Scallopshell were folded away, though Cretticus allowed the bar to use part of his garden instead. Even Lucilla’s assistants, Glyke and Calliste, had to stop carrying out manicures outside their salon and make everyone move indoors. It was a nightmare for gossipmongers. Closeted in the narrow shops or workshops that lined the streets, they missed half of what was going on.

While people grumbled, worse happened. This was the year when, for those in public life, real fear began.

Domitian said an emperor who had to execute only a few opponents was just lucky. Compared with past and future emperors, he was in fact restrained, though there was a keen sense that he hated the Senate, and many who escaped with their lives were exiled instead. Trajan was to say pithily that Domitian was the worst emperor but had the best amici (Trajan himself being one). Trajan was safe; he earned Domitian’s trust during the Saturninus Revolt and now he was serving as governor of Pannonia, one of the Empire’s danger zones.

Crucially aware of his own competence, during the Reign of Terror, Trajan was on the up. Still, he would have seen other governors of provinces executed without trial when Domitian doubted their loyalty. He would also have seen what happened to Agricola — a man whose unusually long posting of seven years had added most of Britain to Roman control, despite climate, terrain and implacable natives. But to Agricola’s disgust, when Domitian then needed troops on the Danube, the vital British legions were reduced and the army ordered to retreat from its hard-won territory in Caledonia. On Agricola’s return to Rome, he received triumphal honours, though it must have seemed grudging since he was then denied the plum posting to Africa or Asia that should have been his right. His son-in-law Tacitus would even claim that Domitian tried to poison off the slighted general.

Ingratitude was there, certainly. It rankled more when Agricola died that year. Those loyal to him felt Agricola had been finished off prematurely by the Emperor’s poor treatment. Gaius Vinius, for one, thought so; he had served in Britain under Julius Agricola and soldiers are traditionally nostalgic about the commanders of their youth. Every time Domitian’s antipathy to the senatorial classes led to some spiteful act against an individual, such ripples spread. He could kill a man who offended him, yet he left everyone who had ever been impressed by that man feeling angry. He had enough acumen to feel the growing backlash, though that only increased his isolation and mistrust.

Domitian’s friends had lost any management of him. Julia’s softening influence was gone, and Domitia seemed powerless. Perhaps, in what had become an empty marriage, she lost interest in trying. With the gradual deterioration of the Emperor’s mind came crueller and more abrupt actions. A man was overheard saying that a Thracian gladiator might beat his Gallic opponent but was no match for the patron of the Games — Domitian; the speaker was dragged from his seat and immediately thrown into the arena to be torn apart by dogs.

Such was the Emperor’s reputation that people actually shook with terror in his presence. As despots do, he noticed with grim amusement. Everything was summed up in his known wish to be addressed as dominus et deus, Master and God. ‘Master’ was commonplace; it would ruffle no plumage, because it was a normal mark of respect used by everyone from soldiers to schoolchildren. But to call any living person a god aroused revulsion. Even deified Roman emperors were a recent phenomenon; they had to be awarded transubstantiation by their successor or the Senate, and they definitely had to die first. Domitian’s own father had made a joke about that, as Vespasian realised he had a fatal illness.

Domitian publicly denied any formal claim to Master and God, yet he accepted the title, seemed to want it — and openly used it in his own correspondence. Sycophants took the hint.

As in all courts full of terror, shameless fawning occurred. In the glistening halls on the Palatine and the remote citadel of Alba, Domitian basked in flattery. People bowed; visitors flung themselves into inappropriate acts of obeisance; there was vile foot-kissing. The careful myth promulgated by the Emperor Augustus, that Rome’s leader should be a normal man living modestly, merely the ‘first among equals’, had always been a sham; it was now completely cast away.

There would never be an organised intellectual opposition. Nonetheless, even though life under a despot grew nerve-racking some still dared to react against it.

First, the Younger Pliny and Herrenius Senecio, himself a Spaniard, joined forces to prosecute Baebius Massa, the governor of Hispania Baetica, for maladministration. It was all the braver because Baebius was a friend of Domitian’s. They won their case. Baebius had to surrender his property to pay off the provincials he had swindled, but with Domitian behind him he survived politically. He retaliated and prosecuted Senecio for treason. The charge failed, but then Mettius Carus, the man who had prosecuted the Vestal Cornelia, took it up in his usual abrasive style.

This was the final stage of a long confrontation with a group of entrenched republicans with stoic beliefs that went right back to the reign of Nero. It led to deaths, and to suspicion of philosophers. It even led to the unlikely spectacle of Nemurus, the closet practitioner of stoic values, visiting his ex-wife to beg for information, hoping she could squeeze her tame Praetorian.

The bony academic managed to turn up at Plum Street not only when Lucilla was out, attending to a customer at the woman’s home, but Vinius was in. For Nemurus this was the worst possible scenario. It forced the two men into an awkward tryst, seated on the balcony in the late afternoon with a bowl of fried stuffed dates and cups of watered wine, while they awaited Lucilla’s return. Nemurus writhed. Vinius (handing snacks po-faced) thought it was very funny.

‘I hope you like these. I made them myself.’ He guessed Nemurus was helpless in a kitchen. The man looked horrified. ‘I don’t expect Lucilla to do everything at home. She works so hard on her own account. She deserves spoiling.’

After a frozen silence, Nemurus caught on. ‘Are you two…?’

‘Oh! Sorry. Yes, we are.’

Nemurus became desperate to leave but was too gauche to extract himself.

Flavia Lucilla arrived shortly. Vinius left the balcony, deliberately pulling a door closed. Nemurus heard him greet Lucilla in a low voice, ‘Your ex is here.’ A silence followed. Nemurus imagined them canoodling. A petrifying dog then pushed open the folding door and growled at him.

Vinius came back, bringing a third chair which he placed close to his own. ‘Put him down, Terror!.. She’s coming.’

Nemurus was now trapped on this small balcony, in the kind of evening the couple must enjoy regularly, either alone or with friends or family. Muted sunshine. Wine and titbits. Pleasant conversation. Laughter. Things that made him nervous.

The awful dog clambered on top of the Praetorian when he resumed his seat. He played with the beast, airily showing off how easy and commanding he was with it.

Lucilla appeared. At once she dived into the stuffed dates, eating with one hand while with the other she removed her sandals and rubbed her feet. Always a wearer of silly shoes, the straps had dug into her, not badly but enough. With her mouth full, she said nothing to Nemurus, just raised an eyebrow questioning his visit. The dog left the Praetorian and lay down by her chair. Using the creature as a footstool, Lucilla buried her bare feet in its horrid fur, wriggling her toes. There could be no doubt, this dreadful pet was beloved of both of them.

‘Oh — would you two like to be left alone?’ Vinius asked suddenly, as if he had only just thought of it. Polite. Considerate. Sickening.

Of course he made it impossible. Nemurus had to say no, no; nothing he wanted to discuss was confidential… This cut across the first principle of the great stoic philosopher Epictetus, who said that people should not lie.

‘So what do you want to talk about?’ demanded Lucilla bluntly.

Nemurus had to come clean. He harboured a suspicion Lucilla and Vinius were laughing at him. He felt constantly uncomfortable.

One of the charges against Domitian was that in the aftermath of the Saturninus Revolt he had forced confessions by ordering men’s genitals to be set on fire. Vinius Clodianus had reduced Nemurus to a wreck by simply handing round canapes. Lucilla was still enjoying the sweetmeats, unaware that her ex-husband was imagining her lover ramming snacks down a suspect’s throat…

Nemurus said he wanted to ask about the implications of recent opposition trials. Lucilla professed she was confused. Nemurus carefully offered to explain. (The Praetorian, he noticed, said nothing; presumably he kept details of previously condemned subversives all on file.)

‘It began about thirty years ago with a senator called Thrasea Paetus, who stood up to Nero. For example, he walked out of the Senate without voting when asked to approve the letter Nero sent to justify murdering his own mother, Agrippina.’

‘A terrible woman?’

‘Agreed, but it was matricide. Paetus offended Nero, then retired to private life. But his role model was the upright Cato, who had drawn attention to the ambitions of Julius Caesar; Paetus wrote Cato’s panegyric. The simple style of living that Paetus adopted seemed an affront to Nero’s crazy court. He was charged before the Senate, who caved in and convicted him, it is said, due to the presence of large numbers of intimidating troops.’

‘Hmm,’ commented Vinius: some uninterpretable professional remark.

Nemurus swallowed. ‘Paetus went home and opened his veins. His daughter Fannia, who was charged in this latest trial, was married to Helvidius Priscus, another ardent stoic. He survived from Nero to Vespasian, though he was banished by Nero at one point for demonstrating approval of Caesar’s murderers.’

‘That is illegal?’ Lucilla asked Vinius.

‘No wise man displays busts of Brutus and Cassius, nor celebrates their birthdays.’ His tone was neutral, suspiciously so, Nemurus thought. Vinius now joined the discussion: ‘Wouldn’t you say Helvidius Priscus embodies how these stoics deliberately confront emperors?’

‘You mean his quarrels with Vespasian?’

‘Yes; he was lucky that Vespasian was a tolerant old fellow, who let him continue his abominable behaviour for so long. Helvidius refused to acknowledge Vespasian as emperor in his judicial edicts as praetor. That was bloody rude. He resolutely called Vespasian by his private name, instead of his title. For the Emperor it must have been galling.’

Nemurus explained, ‘Helvidius was disgusted that Vespasian wanted to found a hereditary dynasty. He always refused to compromise, until Vespasian felt obliged to execute him. Vespasian is said to have tried to rescind the order.’

‘An old trick, but looks good!’ answered Vinius, smiling.

Nemurus was a little shocked. It had never struck him that Vespasian could have been devious about it.

‘Now,’ said Vinius, ‘Senecio’s treason must have been deliberate: he wrote a sympathetic biography of Helvidius Priscus.’

‘But it was a funeral eulogy… Have you read it?’ A teacher’s question. Nemurus noticed that Vinius avoided answering. He found it extremely hard to gauge this one-eyed man’s expression. Presumably if a Praetorian Guard did read republican literature, it was for obnoxious state reasons.

‘Gaius went to the trial.’ Lucilla leaned forwards and spoke earnestly across her lover’s lap, ‘You do realise the position Gaius Vinius holds now? He is the cornicularius — the Guards’ chief-of-staff.’

‘Just a bean-counter,’ Vinius put in, this time definitely smiling.

‘Congratulations,’ said Nemurus in a hollow voice.

Vinius stood up. ‘I’ll fetch more bites.’

An interlude followed, during which both Vinius and Lucilla came and went, bringing items for an informal supper. They clearly assumed that Nemurus would stay. New wine appeared. Perhaps by an oversight, Vinius only poured it for Lucilla and himself, but Lucilla seamlessly reached over and filled Nemurus’ beaker. It was a very palatable red from Spain. Clearly, they lived well.

‘Tell him about the trial, Gaius.’

‘Seems a shame to spoil a pleasant evening.’

‘Well he already knows it stank.’

‘These are good; where did you get them?’ Vinius was asking about seafood rissoles. It was not a distraction; intrigued, Nemurus watched their relaxed interplay between political and domestic subjects. Lucilla answered, then Vinius smoothly summarised the controversial treason trial as if the interruption never happened.

The seven accused included Arria, the fanatical widow of Thrasea Paetus and Fannia, his equally determined daughter, widow of Helvidius Priscus. Arulenus Rusticus, a friend of Thrasea, was convicted for writing a panegyric on him, a work which Domitian had had burned. Rusticus’ brother and sister-in-law were also on trial.

Senecio’s oration for Helvidius Priscus had been written at Fannia’s request and in court Mettius Carus forced her, using brutal interrogation, to admit she lent Senecio her husband’s notebooks. Senecio had further damned himself by refusing to stand for public office.

Helvidius Priscus junior, the late stoic’s son, was on a different charge: he had written a play. Based on the story of the Trojan prince Paris abandoning his first wife Oenone for Helen of Troy, it looked like a jibe at Domitian for divorcing Domitia over the actor, also aptly named Paris, supposedly to enable his passion for Julia.

‘Domitian made both Rusticus and Helvidius junior consuls last year,’ Vinius pointed out. ‘Diffusing the opposition through friendly overtures.’

‘Buying them off,’ scoffed Lucilla. ‘It never works!’

Three male defendants were now to be executed; Domitian had banished the other four, three of them women, to remote islands. The whole affair had become another cause celebre. This show trial would always be cited as proof that Domitian was a despot.

‘If you are worried about your own position, Nemurus,’ said Vinius, ‘forget it. Domitian has no quarrel with stoics as such. The condemned committed very public sins: parading their republicanism, a long family history of enmity with the Flavians, withholding themselves from public duties — plus writings that made saints of previous martyrs.’

‘Don’t write any eulogies,’ instructed Lucilla crisply.

‘So much for my proposed Life and Times of the Late Herrenius Senecio…’ Even Nemurus could make jokes. ‘I teach, dear; I don’t write. Just tell me,’ he pleaded with Vinius. ‘Are there to be banishments of philosophers?’

‘Sorry. Privileged information.’

‘I think it will happen, Vinius.’

‘I think you are right.’

‘You said it was privileged.’

‘The information is. I gave you my opinion.’

‘Subtle! Luckily you have freedom of speech.’

‘True,’ said Vinius. ‘What a glorious regime we live in, under our Master and God.’

Lucilla put a hand on his arm. ‘Gaius, stop teasing. What should he do?’

‘Does he need to do anything?’ Vinius shrugged. ‘I don’t want to insult the man, but he is well below the sight-lines. Why would anyone bother to attack you, Nemurus?’

‘We live in dark times — but not for most people.’ Lucilla reinforced Vinius’ comment.

‘Be realistic.’ Vinius was blunt. ‘You are not worth it. The old prosecutors of Thrasea Paetus gained five million sesterces from it. The latest lot will make their pile, plus Domitian’s gratitude. If you are anxious however, get out of Rome, man. Go now. Go of your own accord, so you can choose your destination and find a quiet life.’

‘He cannot afford it,’ protested Lucilla.

‘ Exactly! A poor teacher is not worth prosecuting.’

Nemurus remained silent and despondent.

‘So what’s perturbing you?’ insisted Vinius.

‘What happened to Juvenal. He was in the circle I move in.’

Lucilla growled. ‘The idiot cannot expect to get away forever with saying Julia died after popping out a series of aborted foetuses, “each the image of Uncle”.’

Vinius winced, then nodded. ‘Nor his descriptions of Domitian’s council in that turbot-cooking satire. He was brutal — about important men, many of whom are professional informers: very shortsighted.’

‘You know the work of Juvenal?’ Nemurus was amazed. The Satires had not yet been formally published, though drafts had been read at private parties; presumably, Vinius had been informed by spies.

‘So what has happened to this bloody daft author, Nemurus?’ The Praetorian pretended not to know.

‘Apparently there were whispers of “a promotion”; Juvenal is an equestrian. He thought he was to have an honourable military posting; instead he was packed off to an oasis miles from civilisation, stuck in a quarry in the Egyptian desert.’

‘Classic Domitian!’ Vinius guffawed unkindly. ‘I have a thought,’ he then offered. ‘If you do consider moving, Nemurus, I know someone with a working farm on the Bay of Naples. It’s towards Surrentum and escaped the volcano. She might welcome a respectable tenant living there as a rent-free caretaker.’

‘Who is this?’ asked Lucilla a little too quickly.

‘Caecilia.’ Vinius twinkled. ‘It’s her famous legacy. Decent size, room for you to take your parents, if that’s a worry, Nemurus; great views; the best weather in the world. Domitian’s villa is safely on the opposite side of the Bay. The area is being revived after the eruption and there is plenty of culture for a man like yourself.’

‘Have you been there?’ Lucilla demanded.

‘No. Septimus took a look.’

‘He would!’ They had dinner with Septimus and Caecilia occasionally now; Lucilla felt ambiguous about the friendship.

‘Who are these people?’ Nemurus sensed undercurrents.

‘My ex-wife and her husband. Nice couple. Obviously,’ said Gaius, teasing Lucilla, ‘Septimus owes me a favour for freeing up Caecilia and her fabulous farm for him.’

‘Bastard.’ Lucilla showed him no real malice.

Gaius then reached across the arm of her chair and clasped her hand, looking at her tenderly.

Public displays of affection between men and women were traditionally un-Roman, but even with Nemurus awkwardly watching, the couple continued to hold hands. Nemurus could tell they did it frequently, whether anyone was there or not.

The meal ended. The wine flagon was not refilled. Nemurus decided to mention that he must be going.

Lucilla merely waved him off, staying where she was. It was Vinius who saw him out. The Praetorian actually came onto the landing, holding the door closed behind him. ‘I meant what I said about Naples. If it seems good, let me know.’

‘That is unexpectedly kind of you.’

‘I want something,’ Vinius admitted. His tone was unexceptional, but his stare was harder. ‘Don’t look so worried. My affection for Lucilla has always shielded you. Sincerely, I do not expect anyone else to betray you either. Our Master and God permits honest philosophy; what you believe, even what you teach, is your own affair. But I want to protect Lucilla.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t contact her again. This is not personal, though I suppose you are entitled to think so. If ever any informer should look at you too closely, I do not want them to pick up a silver snailtrail leading to her.’

The teacher chewed his lip.

‘She is defiant in her choice of friends,’ said the Praetorian softly. ‘She will not drop you; so you have to do it. “ The point is, not how long you live, but how nobly. ” Seneca,’ Vinius spelt out. ‘You know: wise, compassionate, amiable — one of those worthy men of literature who got himself killed by a mad emperor.’