Authors: Lindsey Davis
Clodianus had been waiting, with surprising impatience, for his superior to go; he found he fancied the job. Also, his own position had become awkward. His association with the Urban Cohorts had gained their admiration. They wanted him on full secondment and Rutilius Gallicus officially applied for him to be transferred. Naturally, that made the Praetorian command more determined to hold onto him. A tussle ensued. Rutilius was of senatorial rank, the Praetorian Prefects only equestrians – although there were two of them. Even when Rutilius emphasised his personal gratitude to Clodianus, the transfer request failed. As the Praetorian Prefects recognised: Domitian invariably dug in his heels over anything somebody else wanted.
Then Gallicus died, apparently of natural causes, nothing to do with his mental problems. Clodianus waited cynically for some mannerist poet to write an elegy sobbing, ‘Gallicus is dead! Curse you, gods; you cannot exist after all!’ With his maverick streak, he even told the seditious materials team to watch for such dangerous verse. This team was composed of soldiers who claimed to be poetry-lovers and playgoers, though Clodianus suspected they all knew exactly what they were doing when they volunteered for the undercover censorship job; it would get them off fatigues. On receipt of his order, they devoted much time to listening for atheism at public readings. Disappointingly, the god-cursing lament failed to materialise. Rutilius was old news.
‘Wise Minerva!’ cried Clodianus in a mock strop. ‘What is wrong with authors today? If someone doesn’t get a move on, I may have to write the putrid ode myself.’
He was cheerful for a reason. For him, the death of Rutilius Gallicus removed the Urbans’ hope of poaching him. Their new Prefect was bound to reverse all requests made by his predecessor. Anyway, the cornicularius had at last asked to retire, and it was confirmed that Clodianus would replace him. The cornicularius must have put a word in. Like Decius Gracilis, here was yet another patron who had known his father. Gaius went along with it. He was older now. He wanted the job and he submitted to the system.
He was briefly an optio, a man chosen for promotion. That supplied a clarity he liked, for he hated hints and supposition. It also meant that at their monthly nights out in the Scorpion, it became ‘Gaius’ and ‘Septimus’. Well, sometimes it was still ‘Gaius’ and ‘Sir’, but it was good to show respect, especially when a senior soldier was right: you really were after his job.
‘
Septimus
’ was after something else, and with an adroit manoeuvre obtained it. When, just before the Cornelia trial, the cornicularius applied for his discharge, he set himself up with a complete retirement package. He would receive the bronze leaving diploma, signed by Domitian himself as a sign of the Emperor’s personal relationship with members of his Guard. He would have the notably attractive financial grant. And, since senior officers in the Roman army were the world’s greatest schmoozers, he organised an extra little treat for himself.
The fifth wife of his much-married optio had called at the Camp one day (because the optio never called on her) to confirm that she had finally obtained her longed-for legacy. Since Clodianus had hidden in the clerks’ room until he was sure of what his wife wanted, the cornicularius dealt with her. The nervous optio emerged to hear ‘Septimus’ uttering the ghastly chat-up line, ‘Caecilia –
that’s
a pretty name!’ To this he coupled a technical explanation that although the authorities turned a blind eye, no serving soldier could legitimately be married (thus putting her legacy in jeopardy), whereas a soldier taking his discharge would be given that privilege legally (thereby, if she wanted, rescuing her money for her).
So, despite his hackneyed wooing technique, Septimus acquired the widow. Caecilia was youngish, prettyish, and genuinely relieved that a strong man had offered to shelter her. She brought Septimus the very nice apartment in Lion Street, which he could sublet profitably; he already had a bigger home of his own which needed, he cooed romantically, only a woman’s touch. He became head of a ready-made family, the stepchildren whose adoption would give him the instant rights of a father of three. He might yet have children of his own too, for although Caecilia had not slept with Gaius, she had looked at him very hopefully. Expeditionary moves by Septimus had ascertained that she approached marriage as a dutiful woman, in other words was deliciously eager for any new husband to fulfil her needs. He got the legacy too. Moreover, in filching Caecilia of the lovely name and assets, Septimus had won the gratitude of his optio.
Gaius lost no time in letting his family know these new arrangements, so the news would reach Flavia Lucilla. His only regret was a suspicion that the gossip would be: ‘Poor Gaius has had his wife
stolen
by his senior officer!’ Or worse, a suggestion that Caecilia was a necessary bribe to buy his promotion, making Lucilla think he gave up his wife reluctantly.
Money had changed hands for the job, of course. Sweeteners were the unwritten axle-grease of Roman army postings. It was done in a routine fashion, and selling your wife would not normally form part of the process, not least because a soldier was not supposed to be married. Selling your sister, daughter, grandmother or Mauritanian concubine might be different, Gaius supposed gaily, but as Septimus had Caecilia for extras while the Prefects were satisfied with their usual exorbitant scale of charges, this never came up. Gaius would have been prepared to throw in a couple of his aunts, just to hear those stroppy women’s squawks.
Yes, he was so happy with his promotion, it put him in a silly mood.
Another change was cheering him. Whether the end of his final marriage helped, or whether Lucilla and he had both simply reached exhaustion, their long feud began to thaw.
It first showed when Gaius found renewed interest in music. After Dacia, at first he could not tolerate any kind of melody, but now his old love returned, seeming to mark new inner peace. He had wanted to go to a recital by a celebrity harpist called Glaphyrus. Somehow, he lost the ticket. They were like gold-dust; as he desperately hunted, he sent his servant from the Camp to see if he had dropped the precious seat token at Plum Street.
Lucilla had to let in the servant, so she helped search the apartment, though with no luck. What happened next was instinctive. Working at the court, she was able to call in a favour and good-naturedly sent Gaius a new ticket.
Fresh from the recital, Gaius spent all the next afternoon at a bookshop, deciding on a suitable thank-you present. With the aid of a fascinated shopkeeper, he came up with the odes of Horace. He placed his offering on the table in the sitting room at Plum Street, tossing aside the Ovid that he knew Nemurus gave her. Lucilla had left her bookmark at a poem about a girlfriend with beautiful natural hair, which had all dropped out when she used too much lightener, while attempting to go blonde.
Gaius wrote no message, but on subsequent visits he could tell that his own gift was being read instead of the sock-wearer’s. Lucilla liked Horace for his decency and punchy good humour. And what hairdresser enjoys reading about a bleach disaster?
Gaius found marinaded artichokes left under a cloth in his favourite bowl.
At Saturnalia, Gaius paid a painter to make a family portrait of Felix, Paulina and their children, which was to be his gift to them. The artist, no fool, also sketched the two young girls, Marcia and Julia, informally. Gaius bought this charming little picture, telling the girls to give it to their Aunt Lucilla, since she was very fond of them.
‘Is it a present from you, Uncle Gaius?’
‘You can say it is from you.’
She will guess you paid for it.
I hope so!
Meanwhile the season’s big event threatened to make Lucilla less well disposed. At work, the new cornicularius inherited the Cornelia kerfuffle. Domitian had decided to try the Chief Vestal Virgin for having lovers. It was the second time she stood accused. Guilty or innocent, she was unlikely to get off.
Women throughout Rome were riveted and horrified. Apart from the imperial ladies, who kept their lips sealed, every client of Lucilla’s raised the subject during her coiffure. Most women of any standing knew Cornelia socially.
There were six Vestal Virgins, who were selected by lot between six and ten years old. Taken from their parents, they spent ten years learning their duties, ten years conducting the rituals and ten more teaching new girls. Instantly recognisable with their hair braided with white fillets, and with Hercules Knots on their girdles to symbolise chastity, every day the Vestals walked to a sacred spring and fetched water for the ritual cleansing of their beautiful round temple. Every day they were responsible for keeping alive the flame of Vesta, goddess of the hearth, which must never go out (though it did sometimes) because it had been brought from Troy by Aeneas who founded Rome (in one version). Upon the eternal flame depended Rome’s survival.
As part of their initiation, Vestals took a vow of chastity. In return they received exceptional privileges. A lictor attended each of them everywhere as a sign of their power. They could make their own wills, were not obliged to have guardians, took special seats at festivals and rode in carriages. This perhaps provided a freedom of movement that was useful for the few who erred. Not only did they attend the Games, they visited respectable homes, where it was considered a privilege to have them to dinner. As guests, they came to know not only the matrons of Rome, but over their oysters, rich meats and fine wines these revered women had a chance, if they were so inclined, to flirt with men.
Given that early in Domitian’s reign three of the four adult Vestals had been exiled for taking lovers, it was clear that their inexperience was theoretical; flighty ones could flirt most efficiently. Varronilla and the Oculata sisters had been found guilty. Domitian exercised leniency, so instead of exacting the traditional brutal punishments, he only banished their lovers and let the three guilty Virgins choose their own deaths. Cornelia had been tried too, but acquitted on that occasion. This time, it was clear she would not escape so lightly.
Interfering with a virgin was normally challenged in the courts as stuprum, the same crime that Vinius had held over Orgilius. Because of the Vestals’ special symbolic role, their purity was a religious commodity. As it ensured the continuing safety of Rome, its loss was a national calamity. Yet upon their appointment Vestals were taken from their relatives and the whole of Rome became their family, which meant anyone who slept with a Vestal was committing incest. That was the charge against Cornelia and her lovers now. Punishments had been devised in the remote past. Guilty lovers were hung from a cross in the Forum and thrashed to death with rods. A convicted Virgin must be buried alive. It had happened, although not for a very long time.
Lucilla’s customers divided: some were appalled at the obsolete penalty being meted out in a now-civilised society; others were disgusted that a woman who had enjoyed enormous privileges could not manage to keep her vows and keep her legs together. All were fiercely indignant that Domitian tried Cornelia in her absence. It had always been traditional that, with their unique legal position, unlike other women Vestals were allowed to attend a trial and to represent themselves. Charges would be heard by the college of priests, in the Regia, the pontifical offices. There, a Vestal would be like a disgraced daughter facing a family council, which in Rome carried the force of law yet was dignified and private.
This trial took place at the Emperor’s Alban villa. It was not held in secret; other emperors had been severely criticised for political hearings held behind closed doors. Domitian summoned all the priests to him there and, as Pontifex Maximus, he presided as if in open court. Cornelia remained in Rome, in the House of the Vestals – which had been newly enlarged and restored by Domitian as part of his civic building programme, though not really with the intention of providing a more luxurious place for wicked women to endure house arrest.
Ironically, there was a special sanctuary of Vesta at Alba Longa, associated with the sacred flame, which Aeneas’ son Ascanius was supposed to have first deposited there after arriving from Troy. Cornelia could have been moved to Alba and permitted to attend her trial. Domitian, who had tunnel vision when it suited him, overlooked this.
Mettius Carus prosecuted. He was an informer setting out on a career of supporting Domitian, whose examination of witnesses would become famous for its cruelty. One senator, allegedly, was so stressed by Carus’ harshness, he collapsed and died in the Curia.
Despite rigorous questioning, the case proved extremely difficult. It began to look as if the Chief Vestal would be acquitted again, leaving Domitian shamefaced. He wanted to be seen as an unflinching keeper of religious observance. To charge a guilty Vestal would be painful, but he would endure it for the welfare of Rome. However, to charge an innocent Vestal would be criminal and an offence to the gods. If she was exonerated, he would come out of this looking far worse than when he began.
Cornelia’s supposed lovers ranged from an equestrian called Celer to the highest, Valerius Licinianus, a senatorial ex-praetor, just one rank down from consul. No one of that status could be tortured, nor even have arresting hands laid on him. The lovers all had legal training; Licinianus was considered one of the best advocates in Rome. As praetor, he had been the city’s senior magistrate, presiding over the legal code. The prosecutor, Carus, carried much less weight and for a long time could make no progress in trying to extract confessions. The only evidence against Licinianus appeared to be that he had given refuge to one of Cornelia’s freedwomen, though that did argue for friendship between him and the Virgin beforehand.
Seeing the case slip away without witnesses, Domitian began to ferment with anxiety. Then, at the last gasp, friends of Licinianus persuaded him he was doomed either way. Domitian was intent on pushing through the charges. To escape dying under the rods, Licinianus needed to admit guilt and beg the Emperor for mercy. He suddenly confessed – or, as Herrenius Senecio described it dryly, speaking for him in court: Valerius Licinianus ‘withdrew his defence’.