Authors: Lindsey Davis
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.