Authors: Lindsey Davis
Even when the couple lived at the palace in association with Domitian, Flavia Domitilla had her own household. Her staff were loyal – as Lucilla herself was loyal – though sometimes snobbish. Tatia Baucylla, the hard-working nurse of the seven children, was prone to describing her charges as ‘the great-grandchildren of the Divine Vespasian’, adding much less proudly that Clemens was their father, and immediately reminding people that their mother was the Divine Vespasian’s granddaughter. Stephanus, the steward, called himself ‘freedman of Domitilla’. Lachne always did the same, Lucilla remembered. She was herself Domitilla’s freedwoman, come to that.
So, Flavia Domitilla was now in her mid-forties, discreetly menopausal, facing serious fears as Domitian turned his neurotic attention on her husband. She had never particularly enjoyed court life, preferring the country existence when the Flavians returned to their Sabine homes in the Apennines. True, they owned grand country villas set in well-run estates, but there they lived out Italian summers with long wooden tables set in the open air for relaxed family parties, while quarrel-free children scampered about under pine trees: rustic breads, earthy wines, simple cheeses, bountiful vegetables and fruits, wild honey. They enjoyed harvests and visits to local markets; hunting in the woods, truffle-seeking, river fishing; entertainment by travelling musicians and traditional dancers. Long sunny days followed by a good night’s sleep.
Lucilla had been on these vacations in her time, and much enjoyed them, although since she became lovers with Gaius, she tended to decline invitations so she could spend time with him.
Her closeness to Gaius had slightly distanced her from Flavia Domitilla, who accepted the change with knowing smiles, pleased for this lively young woman she had known from childhood, who was part of her own domestic history.
Gaius began that year with insecurities. Having two new Prefects rocketed into post like unpredictable comets caused tension; it was the first time he had gone through this since becoming cornicularius.
The newcomers had to settle down. They came up with ridiculous ideas for restructuring – not feasible in a legionary organisation, as their cornicularius had to point out gently. There was the usual talk of budget cuts, although any commissariat man could kill that dead using adroit threats to his superiors’ perks. Then they scrutinised the complement. All the senior officers became jumpy, in case they were to be weeded out. It came to nothing in most cases. The irritating bastards everyone else had hoped to lose clung on in their posts as irritating bastards always do.
One Prefect, Norbanus, was a dedicated Domitian supporter; he arrived here via the army route, after making his name during the Saturninus Revolt. He had taken troops from Raetia to aid Lappius Maximus in defeating Saturninus, earning himself Domitian’s gratitude and the reward of this prefecture. The other new man, Petronius Secundus, had risen through civil positions, including the prestigious post of Prefect of Egypt. It was unclear how well, if at all, the two men had known each other previously; there were signs they did not gel. That was the point of having two. While they jostled for supremacy, they were unlikely to acquire too much power at the expense of the Emperor. Nobody had ever forgotten how the brutal Sejanus tried to grab the throne from Tiberius.
Domitian must remember this: his favourite reading, perhaps his only reading nowadays, was Tiberius’ Memoirs, a book most people would place on the highest shelf of their library to gather dust. Gaius had a copy in his office; one of the scrolls had just the right flexibility to whack flies.
Petronius Secundus kept his head down at first. He let Norbanus lead. Gaius felt irritated, though not entirely surprised, when Norbanus had his personal secretary (a creepy hack who had come with him from Raetia) send a stiff little note in spidery writing to say it would be of value if the chief-of-staff dropped by for a review of his duties. For that, in the ludicrous way of public service, Gaius prepared career notes on himself.
He took his draft to Lucilla before he submitted it. She made him beef up the parts where he had shown bravery in the field.
He highlighted the Abascantus safety committee, because he knew that among his handover notes from Casperius Aelianus, Norbanus possessed a secret file on Preserving the Emperor. Gaius, who had drafted most of the file, had much entertainment outlining his own role, in the third-person narrative he conventionally used when briefing seniors: whether it would be cost-effective to remove Clodianus from his important work on granary records to be co-opted onto the safety committee, the verdict of the suitability assessment, plus exactly what security checks on Clodianus had revealed. He gave Clodianus the all-clear for loyalty.
When Gaius sauntered along, the Prefect was wearing his full uniform. He always did. Praetorian commanders were military and Norbanus enjoyed that. Guards judged a Prefect by whether, in the privacy of his quarters, he felt it necessary to retain formal marks of status or threw off his huge cloak with a groan of relief as anyone sensible did.
Norbanus had little to say about the cornicularius duties. He wanted to thrill himself sick with top secret subjects. ‘I noticed you mentioned Abascantus and his special group.’
‘Yes, sir. I hope it did not come across as flippant.’
Norbanus thought for a nerve-racking period. ‘No.’ He considered some more. He was a slow thinker. Gaius had learned to pace him. ‘No, I like your attitude.’
Gaius said nothing.
Norbanus suddenly produced a beaming smile that his officer distrusted. ‘So, Clodianus – this is a tricky one!’
Hades!
‘“Preserving the Emperor” – that’s what we’re all here for . . . What’s the mood at barracks level, tell me? Talking to cohort commanders, do I sense a dangerous yearning for change? Are any Guards wondering, at what point do we have to start making awkward decisions? What do you think? Have you noticed whispers?’
Shit! What change? What decisions?
Surely the man was not making dangerous suggestions of a new regime?
The Prefect was staring directly at him, twitching up one hairy eyebrow in enquiry.
‘We take the Oath, sir.’
‘And the rest!’ Norbanus spoke low. ‘Our Master handed out a whacking bonus to secure the Praetorians, back when he became Emperor. Your curriculum shows you on the complement then, so you were one of the lucky ones.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That was fourteen years ago. If the term in service for a Guard is sixteen years – well, you see my thinking. The number who received the bonus must be dwindling fast. Do new boys feel the same obligation, in your opinion?’
‘They are proud to serve, sir.’ Gaius sounded like his father. They had got him at last.
Norbanus whistled. ‘Gods, you’re a cool one! I can see why they appointed you, Clodianus.’
Longing for this to be over, Gaius applied a cool man’s close expression. As a soldier he was good at it.
‘Well, I want you to keep attending this committee. Watch what they are up to and report back to me personally.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I don’t entirely trust these freedmen – load of funny buggers wearing fancy necklaces. I weep no tears for the loss of Abascantus.’
‘No, sir. By the way, sir; with Abascantus packed off, I have been wondering who I should liaise with instead?’
‘Parthenius!’ Norbanus announced. ‘Don’t ask me how they fixed it up between them, but Parthenius is your man now.’
Gaius went so far as to raise his eyebrows. ‘The
chamberlain
? Doesn’t he spend his life counting pillowcases?’ He could not envisage it working, but until he had the measure of this change, he decided not to protest. The chamberlain shadowed the Emperor and controlled his visitors, so it could be appropriate.
‘Well, the same aim applies. The Emperor’s safety is paramount. That will always have my personal attention. Now Clodianus, this briefing is absolutely confidential – just between ourselves.’ Norbanus addressed him in the manner of a slightly sinister uncle. ‘I don’t need to tell you that if anything goes off, it is absolutely essential the Guards nip trouble in the bud. Vigilance! We need absolute vigilance.’
‘Absolutely!’ Gaius knew how to pick up jargon. ‘Just one query, Prefect. On the safety issue, do you know the position of Petronius Secundus?’
Norbanus looked guarded. ‘He has his own ideas. I am sure we can count on him.’ So he viewed Secundus as treacherous. ‘I don’t want you to feel inhibited. Any problems, come to me.’
‘Jolly good, sir!’
‘My door is always open.’
It was closed at the moment so nobody could overhear Norbanus insinuating disloyalty in his fellow Prefect.
Once Norbanus had meddled enough to establish himself, Secundus started his own exercise. Gaius monitored the interplay between them as a kind of scientific experiment for an encyclopaedia, a section with insects.
Secundus decided to emerge from his chrysalis and interview all his cohort tribunes about their careers: he called this ‘the personal touch’. To anyone who had been in the army twenty years the phenomenon was well known. The cornicularius patiently took charge of the diary to book in the ten tribunes for their little chats, then he produced helpful briefing notes on each man’s history. Straightforward stuff. It was no different from when, in the vigiles, he had sent a criminal to the City Prefect, appearing to ask for advice on the case but giving a strong steer on what the culprit had done and how to punish him. He gained a few drinks out of this exercise, as the more astute tribunes tried to influence what he said about them.
He could have landed one or two of them in it, had he been that type. Which they must hope he wasn’t.
Of course not.
He watched them return from their interviews, seeing who looked deflated and who swaggered. One or two would receive their discharge diploma quicker than they had expected; Gaius, who gave instructions to the calligrapher who incised the tablets, had already set this in motion. The Prefect’s exercise was excellent man-management, although like most such party games it severely unsettled the men who were being managed, even those who survived the process. Although there was never any suggestion Domitian know about it, this was just the kind of mental cruelty the Emperor himself enjoyed.
Gaius had to submit to the ‘personal touch’ himself. Secundus set him at his ease – always embarrassing for both parties. The Prefect plodded through various aspects of his work as cornicularius. Ever thoughtful, Gaius had prepared a list for him, to smooth this process.
The truth was, little needed attention or alteration. The office was well run. There were few complaints; most of those could be discounted. A decent commissariat made for a smooth-running corps. Secundus knew he had a good chief-of-staff, who was abreast of everything. The Guards were fine. Of course Gaius had already established this with Norbanus.
‘Excellent!’
‘Thank you, Prefect!’
They had reached the moment that always happened in interviews, when the discreet Clodianus had to decide exactly when to pick up his note tablets and slide out of the office. Sometimes – and his antennae prickled that this was one of those occasions – he had to stay for a stiff period of informality. The tone would lighten up. A Prefect would discuss the Games, the weather, or even mild anxieties about his children; a particularly jolly incumbent would have a laugh about any sex scandals which involved children of absent colleagues (though most thought it bad form to openly libel their equals in rank). According to tradition, there was a possibility Secundus would produce his set of wine glasses, while a previously unseen slave would pop out with wine to put in them.
Last Saturnalia, with Casperius Aelianus, there had even been a bowl of olives. Since Gaius had to stock the Prefects’ refreshments cupboard, he had made sure they were Colymbadian, and whenever he was at a meeting where tuck came out, he took home the leftovers. Such are the quiet rewards of honest public servants.
Today neither the glasses nor the slavey turned up. They had hit the friendly part, but had not finished business.
Gaius had thought this time he was getting away without mentioning the safety committee. Secundus left his big throne-like chair and flopped in a more comfortable seat. As he placed his boots on a low table to indicate they could relax, he brought up the subject after all. Gaius picked at a thumbnail despondently.
Secundus suddenly remembered the etiquette. ‘Time for a noggin, yes?’ He plonked his boots back on the floor, jumped up, went to a cupboard and now did produce glasses. They were enormous greenish tumblers, with cheery skeletons advising, ‘
Drink, for tomorrow we die
’. He burrowed in the wine stash without involving a slave.
He came back, arranged stuff on the low table between them, poured. They raised glasses. It was excellent wine. Prefects always brought their own in because they wanted a decent vintage; with the best will in the world a military negotiator could not afford quality, else Treasury Audit dug in their heels. Gaius had had to explain this tactfully when the two new Prefects were appointed. It was about the third point down in some Guidance Notes for Induction of New Commanders that he had inherited from predecessors. Where the first point was telling the incumbents why their offices were not big enough and the second was pointing out which latrine was specially reserved for their use. For them – and for Gaius, when he knew they were out of camp.
Petronius Secundus regarded him with a wry expression. ‘Well! . . . Delicate, is it not?’ He did not mean his wine.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I don’t have to remind you, anything said in this office stays here.’ Gaius gave a twist of his head, the universal sign; Secundus could feel happy that in no circumstances would his colleague Norbanus hear what they had said. ‘You worked with Abascantus, so you understand what he was trying to do.’
Gaius sipped like a girl. Wine on an empty stomach, together with a feeling that the discussion was escaping him, made him moderate his input.