Authors: Lindsey Davis
He saw Lucilla’s expression. ‘How many of your wives –?’
‘Be easy. The last person who wore that ring was my mother, Clodia.’
Lucilla knew how he thought of his mother. She did try it on. ‘I am supposed to accept this for the child?’
‘Let our child be born a citizen! If anything should happen to me, I want to think you are both provided for – otherwise the state will deny your rights and snaffle everything.’
‘Nothing is going to happen to you.’
‘Not if I can help it . . . I found this, when I was burrowing.’ Gaius produced an elderly tablet, the wood stained and the wax hard. It was from his time in the vigiles, and on it in his handwriting was her name. ‘
Flavia Lucilla
; some girlie who made an impression on me in the vigiles. Look, I never smoothed it over in nearly twenty years.’
‘Oh Gaius, why?’
‘I didn’t know.’ He grinned at her. ‘But I know now.’
He still had a handsome profile, and Lucilla still thought he was too aware of it.
O
n the first of September new consuls were sworn in.
The conspiracy revived. They had considered the mid-year consuls unsympathetic to their aims: one with a military background had worked with Domitian closely in Pannonia, and another came from Reate, Vespasian’s birthplace, the Flavian heartland whose politicians were intensely cliquey. Both men looked dangerous to the plotters. With two powerful consuls against them, they felt stymied.
Those consuls were replaced for the last four months of the year by Calpurnius, whom nobody knew much about although they knew nothing against him, and a much healthier prospect: Caesius Fronto. He was the son or adopted son of the famous lawyer and senator, Silius Italicus, who was now swelling the ranks of retired poets in Campania; Italicus was writing an epic about the Carthaginian war, a work which was bound to involve reminiscing about the good old days when politicians had sanity and integrity. He came from Patavium, birthplace of the martyred philosopher Thrasea Paetus; this town had produced many members of the stoic opposition, men who tended to meet and collaborate when they went to Rome.
The son, Fronto, mingled with those men, held the same views and was, like others before him, awarded a consulship by Domitian to mitigate his hostility. Parthenius believed in Fronto as his ideal controller of the Senate if the plot went ahead.
That finally seemed likely. Flavia Domitilla’s steward Stephanus suddenly learned he was accused of theft. Everyone knew what that meant. He was next up for banishment, if not execution. He approached Parthenius and offered to carry out Domitian’s murder.
Stephanus looked suitable. So far, he still worked at the palace, so he could get close to the Emperor. Stephanus was angry enough and strong enough. He still raged at the injustice to his mistress and her family; he loathed Domitian. With both career and life under threat, Stephanus had nothing to lose. They would have to act fast though, because of the theft accusations. Delay only increased the chance of discovery.
Domitian was in Rome. That was what they wanted. He was officiating at the Roman Games which, ironically, began on the fourth of September, an extra day that had been added in honour of the murdered Julius Caesar. The Roman Games ran for over two weeks, until the nineteenth; on the thirteenth, the September Ides, fell the important anniversary of the founding of the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter, which Domitian would obviously want to honour. By coincidence, Titus had died on the Ides of September, so the fourteenth, which by another grim coincidence was traditionally a black day in the calendar, had become Domitian’s own anniversary as Emperor. So he had a lot to celebrate – while others were also thinking about his anniversary and evaluating his reign bleakly.
The period of the Roman Games would be their last chance. Insiders knew that as soon as these Games ended, he would slip away. An enormous expeditionary force of five legions plus auxiliaries had been assembled for the next war on the Danube. Domitian had been closely involved in planning and he intended to go. Militarily, time was tight. Even if he dashed off straight after the Games ended, he could not arrive in Pannonia until the start of October; that allowed a maximum of six weeks before winter set in and campaigning had to end. An initial excursion across the Danube had in fact already started, under an experienced commander called Pompeius Longinus, who had years of frontier service.
That could be helpful. Once Longinus committed troops, he was unlikely to pull them back even if he heard that the Emperor had died. The Danube army was the dangerous one for the plotters, so it was good to have it tied up in an active campaign. The legions in Britain and the east were tricky, but hopefully too far away to cause trouble.
They still had no candidate to replace Domitian. Their objective of a smooth transfer of power depended on producing someone who would be willing and acceptable. Frantic manoeuvring began.
The Games, with their bustle and socialising, provided good cover. They were triumphal, beginning with a parade, then dancing, boxing, athletics and drama; the finale was four days of chariot races in the Circus Maximus, which the Emperor was currently repairing after fire damage. Domitian would watch from his splendid new viewing gallery on the Palatine, which dominated the great southern bulwark side of the imperial palace, right above the Circus. As fire-walkers and rope-dancers entertained vast crowds, amidst the constant scent of flowers, smoke, donkey shit and street food, everyone important was conveniently in Rome. Associates could meet and mutter, without causing suspicion. Canvassing went ahead apace.
One after another, the most prominent men said no. Intriguingly, none reported the plot to Domitian.
No one, said Domitian, ever believed in plots until the victim was dead. He believed. He was all too superstitious. He felt convinced people were out to get him – a reasonable fear since it was true.
To the agonised Emperor, Rome became full of portents. He had dedicated the new year to the care of the Goddess of Fortune but the omens were dreadful. That summer, lightning struck several monuments, among them the Temple of the Flavians, the Temple of Jupiter and the new palace; a flash damaged Domitian’s bedroom, which he took as particularly significant. Had the Emperor not been so insanely superstitious, no one would have thought anything of all this. It was approaching the autumnal equinox. The Mediterranean often had thunderous storms. Flurries of severe weather came up suddenly, passed quickly, left the air fresher.
Astrologers prophesied when the Emperor would die; they knew his fixation. He had such black thoughts, they could safely make such forecasts, even though producing imperial horoscopes was illegal. If nothing happened on the day they named, their predictions would be quickly forgotten, especially by Domitian. Anyway, he believed that if he knew in advance what was planned for him, as a clever schemer he could outwit the fates. To prove it, he challenged one prognosticator to foretell his own death; on hearing it would be soon, and that the man expected to be torn apart by dogs, Domitian crisply had him killed and arranged for his funeral to be conducted very carefully.
A storm blew up and scattered the pyre; dogs did descend on the half-burned corpse, and Domitian’s informer, the actor Latinus, unhelpfully told him.
During this crazy period, Gaius found himself summoned to attend at the palace with Norbanus, the more loyal Praetorian Prefect. From what he heard and saw, he became horrified that the plot was on the verge of being exposed.
Domitian would still go for walks, brooding bleakly on the danger he was in. His latest extravagance was to have huge plaques of moonstone set up, polished mirror-bright, so he could see if anyone crept up behind. Gaius reflected tetchily that there was a beautiful, completely private garden where the Emperor could have walked instead in perfect safety.
Domitian was defying danger. If the danger was real, this was bloody stupid.
Norbanus and Clodianus accompanied the Emperor as ordered. It was a fitful stroll. Domitian paced in short, agitated spurts, gaining no benefit from the exercise. He never relaxed; he was tight with anxiety.
The fragments of conversation Gaius managed to overhear as the Emperor and the Prefect marched up and down ahead of him confirmed everything that was said about Domitian: he was secretive and treacherous, he was crafty and vindictive. He must have got wind of something. He was excitedly giving the Prefect orders about senators. Gaius recognised several; these men were on the plotters’ list to canvass as replacement emperors. They had said no. Despite that, Norbanus was being told to eliminate them.
‘Clodianus!’
The Prefect gesticulated for his officer to approach. It was the first time for years he had been up so close to his master. They were two feet apart: Domitian with his glorious purple robe stretched taut over the chunky Flavian paunch, Clodianus tall and strong in his red tunic, expression clear despite his nerves. Perhaps he imagined it, but that oddly curved lip of Domitian’s seemed more pronounced, the backward tilt of the head ever more peculiar.
For the soldier, there now began the most difficult conversation of his life. Domitian demanded a report on the secret committee. He wanted details. Who attended? How had they contributed? Which seemed untrustworthy? What signs had been observed that they aimed at his destruction? Names were put directly to the cornicularius. Domitian fired them off: names Clodianus knew, names he knew for certain were innocent, even names he had never heard of. The catalogue astonished him. Half the Senate and large numbers of imperial freedmen seemed to be under suspicion. Domitian had picked these out for himself as people who were against him, faces he was about to have arrested.
The cornicularius assumed a boot-faced, solid attitude, still trying to reconcile his duty with his inclinations. He was giving nothing important away, yet his act must be unconvincing. Norbanus shot him filthy looks and although Domitian apparently took it all in without resistance, Gaius felt queasy.
Quite suddenly, his interrogation ended.
The Emperor gave him a long, hostile, knowing stare. Domitian did not say this time,
I know that man!
Nor did Vinius Clodianus mention their past encounters. The cornicularius had failed his test.
There was no recognition that this was the soldier who had saved the priest and sympathised with Domitian on the Capitol all those years before, a Praetorian Guard with long years of steady service, the prisoner whose suffering in Dacia had so shocked his master. Anyone else built up trust through shared experience; for the Emperor, the past was irrelevant. With his flawed temperament, Domitian only lived for the suspicions of the moment.
Domitian was convinced the Guard had betrayed him. But Clodianus had been true so far. Once the Emperor discounted his whole career of loyal service, everything changed. He swore the oath and took the money. But he had remained his own man. Themison had diagnosed it:
to be constantly under suspicion while innocent may exasperate his associates until they do turn against him. Those who love him will feel rejected . . .
He understood that look in Domitian’s eyes. He knew what all those men must have gone through, those the Emperor invited into cosy confabulations at the same time as turning against them. Now he stood in danger himself. A cornicularius, with access to the entire Praetorian budget, could easily be accused of mishandling funds, for example. He, Vinius Clodianus, was in line for some harsh accusation of misdemeanour; for disgrace, exile, even death. Untrue; unjust. But impossible to refute, even if opportunity was given – which would not happen.
‘I want a list.’
‘Of course.’ A commissariat man knew always to agree; in his own time he could ignore instructions. ‘
Domine.
’ He meekly said ‘Master’ – but he would not call Domitian ‘God’.
What kind of list? This was the nub of the problem. Brooding intently, Domitian would not specify. He thought anyone loyal ought to know what was needed; to force their response was a good trial of their honesty. He did not care what they told him; he made up his own mind anyway. Any list would do. Any names would answer. The list need not be complete, it need not be relevant or truthful, it just had to provide him with his next victims. Confirm his suspicions. Validate his fear.
After a curt dismissal, the unhappy cornicularius marched off. He felt the Emperor follow him with another baleful stare. Norbanus remained behind, probably so Domitian could order him to discipline and destroy Clodianus. One of the slaves who assembled within call slipped past. Domitian had asked for a note tablet. He would make his own list.
That stare said Vinius Clodianus would be on it.
Domitian believed that he would die on September the eighteenth, at the fifth hour.
The previous day, someone gave him a gift of apples; he ordered them to be served tomorrow, saying darkly, ‘If I am spared!’
‘He is like some miserable uncle that nobody wants to sit beside at Saturnalia!’ Lucilla complained to Gaius. As Gaius remarked, at least it gave the conspirators a diary date.
‘The last day to choose is when he expects it,’ Lucilla demurred. Gaius smiled quietly. He was abstracted, still burdened by that meeting with Domitian, anxious for himself, more anxious for Lucilla. ‘Oh Gaius, surely we must hope to catch him by surprise!’
‘If he anticipates an attack, he may accept it. “
This is the prophecy, your time has come, give up now.
” Then killing him becomes much easier.’
Gaius thought the inexperienced Stephanus would falter. Stephanus might look strong, but a palace freedman had no martial training. They had brought in a gladiator to instruct him in basic attack moves. Parthenius produced one of Domitian’s own professionals, who helped them in return for the promise of freedom and presumably a large cash payment. Gaius never knew the fighter’s name. He had no great faith in what the gladiator could achieve with Stephanus in just a few days of secret working out.