Authors: Lindsey Davis
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.