Master and God

by Lindsey Davis

  Knowing these things is not enough.

  Voices are audible beyond the massive double doors. Dimly they reach Musca, who does not react. But the human listens intently, knowing they will be talking of him. There is no other subject in his villa at Alba, only the Emperor.

  The men outside, like all at the court, are waiting to see how he will behave; most are already anxious. The precedents are bad. Generally, emperors of stature came to the post when they were mature and experienced. Titus, at a mere forty, was unusual. He defied doubters, in only two years establishing himself as much-admired. Who could say whether, given time, he would have degenerated? Yet that no longer matters. His good reputation will last.

  Everyone is remembering the two very young emperors: Gaius, who was known as Caligula, and Nero. Both were bywords for extravagance, cruelty and madness. Domitian is thirty. People call him the new Nero, pretending it reflects his cultural interests, yet hinting at the worse traits that brought the Senate to declare Nero an enemy of the state. Nero, too, was believed to have poisoned his brother. Will Domitian follow Gaius and Nero into tyranny, or will he develop more benignly?

  Is his character already formed, his destiny predetermined? Will he have any choice?

  He owns everything he could ever want. He can do anything.

  He is human. Megalomania beckons alluringly.

  One voice outside the room is too quiet to distinguish but the speaker’s companion is Vibius Crispus: bland, confident, self-interested, supposedly witty. Crispus trims his barque to any current. First he flourished as an informer for Nero; his own brother was accused of extortion as a provincial governor but Crispus managed to reduce the sentence. Without breaking stroke, when most Neronian informers went down, Crispus reconfigured himself to become a close associate of Vespasian and Titus. Now he manages to hold on at court as Domitian creates his own circle of advisers: Caesar’s friends, some of whom actually like their Caesar. Men who either enjoy risk, or cannot think up an excuse to avoid his notice.

  These souls attempt their duties, their role as advisors, yet the new Emperor thwarts them and causes perturbation. He takes long solitary walks; fails to confide; gloomily spends hours all alone in closed rooms, doing nothing. No one thinks that he may be suffering mentally after the loss of his father and brother. Even he fails to recognise it as bereavement.

  The ‘villa’ at Alba is an enormous complex, peopled by an entourage that runs into hundreds. He ought to lead them; show himself; thrill them with his presence and personality. People judge as peculiar his sitting alone for many hours, killing flies with his pen. In stuffy, traditional, upper-class Rome, it amounts to a breach of etiquette, one they will not forgive.

  ‘Is anybody with him?’

  The reply is sarcastic: ‘No, not even a fly!’

  Wrong, Crispus.

  Musca is here, about to have fun. She begins her plan to annoy the man at the table. She zooms at high speed from one side of him to the other, as if winding invisible wool-skeins through the room, buzzing loudly as she goes. She dive-bombs him. She taunts him, rushing past his ear, so close he feels air shimmer with her wings. He gives no sign of noticing. He stares ahead, slowly twirling his pen between his fingers, apparently unaware of the housefly trying to torment him.

  Musca will not be appearing in this story again.

  PART 2

  Rome: AD 82-84

  You think he is going mad?

  7

  Tiberius Decius Gracilis was posted to Rome for Domitian’s new Praetorian unit. The incoming emperor felt the need to show his importance by raising the number protecting him from nine to ten cohorts. It brought almost a thousand extra Guards onto the complement, including ten centurions. Gracilis had been a centurion for a number of years, rising to primipilus, ‘first-spear’, or chief centurion in a legion. It was a venerated post, dedicated to ensuring continuity and discipline. These officers did much more than nurture continuity, so the character of any legion owed much to the individual strengths and prejudices of its primipilus. Wielding such power could make a man seriously corrupt, though by the time anyone reached first-spear in a Roman legion, he had learned how to get away with almost anything. Oddly, some of these heroes were surprisingly straight.

  It went without saying that where centurions were traditionally reckoned to be bastards, chief centurions were the bloodiest bastards of all, a role they much enjoyed.

  It was a one-year post. Afterwards, the holder was entitled to take his retirement, leaving with an enhanced discharge grant and an impressive detail for the mason to chip onto his memorial stone. Yet most wanted to stay as long as possible in their army life, which offered so much simple joy and prestige. They applied to be chief centurions of further legions, taking along increasingly colourful reputations and the elaborate investment portfolios they had put together from their rewards as the army’s super-bastards.

  Gracilis arrived at the Praetorian Camp with his decorations in a casket he had designed himself; first-spears adored fancy equipment. Special luggage enhanced their status, if greater status were needed. His box had neat, removable cloth-lined trays for his nine gold phalerae, the heavy round breastplate badges that soldiers who cared about such things jealously collected, and cedarwood inserts to hold his other awards: all his little spears and torcs and honorary bracelets, together with diplomas listing citations. When Gracilis stowed the box in his newly allocated officer’s suite, he gave it a casual kick into position as if the baubles meant little to him. However, he then instructed his servant that nobody else was to touch that casket or he would personally remove their balls with his dagger, barbecue those stinking items with rosemary, and eat them.

  The servant, who had looked after Gracilis for years, smiled politely.

  The centurion chewed a thumbnail. His expression was that of an overseer as he checked that a crucified thief had been nailed up straight. ‘Or I may decide on marjoram — if that’s not too girlie.’

  Nobody — that is, nobody who wanted to keep his spleen intact — would call Decius Gracilis girlie.

  He was sturdy, short-legged, short-armed, shrewd and competent. At forty-five, he weighed two hundred and ten pounds naked and barefoot, with a body he was still proud to own. By descent he was Spanish, though born in Northern Italy. His heavily tanned face had wide-set eyes, which gave him a startled, boyish look, and eyebrows which, despite his thinning grey hair, were still brown. In the last year of Vespasian’s reign he had been promoted out of the XX Valeria Victrix in Britain (one of the utterly glorious legions that defeated Queen Boudicca) to be first-spear of the IX Hispana (glorious for the same heroic reason), which had happened to be his grandfather’s legion, as it once served in their home province. Under the Emperor Titus, Gracilis moved on, far across Europe to Moesia, where he served in the I Italica at Novae, staring across the Danube in case the barbarians did something stupid, then further upriver to the V Macedonica at Oescus; he had been expected to shift even deeper into the interior to the VII Claudii at Viminacium, but he had heard a rumour about a new Guards cohort so applied himself to the challenge of obtaining a transfer. He got his wish; now he was here. He had never been to Rome before yet stalked the streets like a man who thought Rome should be glad to have him.

  The new cohort’s formation allowed him to skip the vigiles and Urbans to enter directly at the top. Like others, he had volunteered to take a demotion to ordinary centurion to secure this Praetorian post. Though he would have denied being arrogant, Gracilis believed he would soon move up a notch again to his rightful rank as primipilus. All the Guards centurions thought that of themselves, though he might actually achieve it.

  Once assigned to a cohort, a vital task was to appoint his assistant, his beneficarius. There was always pressure to look at those who had been selected for promotion to centurion but who were awaiting a vacancy. Gracilis had no particular beef against such hopefuls since he had been one himself once, but he was an individual who took his time. He loo
ked around. Picking his beneficarius was highly personal; by definition the two men had to get along. It was also one of the favours centurions could bestow, part of their much-loved power.

  When he noticed a soldier he already knew, the decision made itself. Gracilis remembered Gaius Vinius. Back in the Twentieth, he had liked this legionary’s talent and attitude. The centurion believed he never had favourites, but he had known the young man’s father, Marcus Rubella, in the army years before so naturally he took an interest in his colleague’s son. He had nurtured the recruit, seeing him grow in a couple of years from a casual lad to a highly professional soldier. When, after his wounding, Vinius lay all night unconscious in the sanatorium, Gracilis had watched over him obsessively, alternately raging at the Ordovices and yelling abuse at the surgeon. He knew that if Vinius died, he would have to write and explain to his old friend. Since both men thought saving idiot tribunes’ lives was an insult to the gods, this would not have been easy.

  When Vinius came round, it was Gracilis who told him, as considerately as possible, that he had lost his right eye and his good looks.

  They were reunited in Rome on the Praetorian Campus, an enormous parade ground that sprawled between the barracks and the city walls. Gracilis was there knocking his cohort into shape with what he believed was a light hand and the men regarded as unnatural punishment. They were all tough, yet Gracilis had them whimpering. There had been rebellious mutters, comparing his treatment to that of Nero’s intractable general, Corbulo, who took troops who needed hardening up to an icy boot camp in remote Armenia, where several died of exposure and harsh treatment…

  Vinius and a few comrades had been watching. They were standing on the edge of the parade ground, letting the straining bunch of new boys know by means of ‘helpful’ comments that their performance did not impress. Vinius had now achieved his own acceptance, so he could enjoy handing out this welcome to newcomers. His scars had faded, but his battered face, once so handsome, was instantly recognisable; he in turn quickly remembered his one-time centurion. When Gracilis concluded the exercise, he called Vinius over.

  Formality was needed in public but once off duty they retired to the privacy of one of many bars near the camp. These were serious places where a capacity for hard drinking was the entry ticket, yet landlords knew they had to keep order or they would be closed down. The whole point of bringing the Praetorians all together in one place, back under the Emperor Tiberius, had been to impose more discipline than when they were originally billeted throughout the city and caused havoc. Guards were now discouraged from mingling with civilians. They had their own social venues. If members of the public accidentally wandered in they were served and no one bothered them, but the atmosphere soon persuaded them to drink up and leave.

  Gracilis and Vinius settled down. Gracilis bought the first round, claiming seniority. They caught up on news. For the centurion this merely consisted of listing his appointments. Vinius had more to say, explaining his sudden move to the Guards and his regret at leaving the vigiles. ‘I really miss being an enquirer. I’m just a face in the ranks now.’

  ‘Investigators work without much supervision?’ This mattered. A centurion’s assistant would have to know his thoughts before he had them, and act on his own initiative.

  ‘Complete independence. I loved it,’ answered Vinius ruefully.

  ‘Were you any good?’

  ‘Shaping up.’

  ‘What was involved?’

  ‘Monitoring undesirables — prostitutes, religious fanatics, philosophers, astrologers. I investigated pilfering at the baths. Crimes in the Forum, domestic disturbances, knife fights in bars, mad dogs, street ambushes at night… On a good day,’ he reminisced, ‘I’d have some charming young lady trip in to report a home burglary.’

  ‘I can’t remember — are you single?’ Gracilis noticed Vinius wore a gold ring, but that could mark the equestrian rank he had acquired from his father.

  A distinct shadow crossed the soldier’s scarred face. Vinius was polishing off a bowl of olives, not greedily but throwing them into his mouth with a relentless action that disguised emotion. ‘My wife died — the city epidemic. Our child too.’

  Gracilis could not fully interpret the expression Vinius wore. Arruntia and their young daughter had died very recently. Vinius was still suffering a lot of family blame. One of his aunts, speaking for them all, had attacked him bluntly for not making a home visit when his dependants were sick. His last contact with Arruntia had been a typical blazing row. The next time he showed his face was at the funeral.

  Losing his family had plunged him into guilt and despair. However, other women were disturbingly eager to console him. Foremost was a smart and sassy young matron called Pollia, supposedly his wife’s best friend. She had left her husband so was free to cosy up to the widower; she explained that immediate remarriage was the best way for Vinius to regain his equilibrium. He fell for it. His aunts were disgusted, though Pollia, a subtle operator, made him feel this was expected by everyone.

  I give it two months! said her mother.

  They lived with Pollia’s mother. Too late, Gaius saw this as a mistake. Guilt over his dead wife was expressing itself as lust (which had to be modified because of poor sound proofing in the mother’s apartment). Sex attracted him, but sex with Pollia never seemed a complete foundation for thirty years of mild debate over whether he liked carrots or how many relatives to invite for Saturnalia — family life as his aunts had drilled him to expect it. He and Pollia were not soulmates. He was glad he could flee to the camp.

  Pollia had a child, not previously mentioned. Fortunately, Vinius took to the little boy.

  He had made up his mind to be a better father this time.

  Don’t bet on it! sniffed his aunts.

  He outlined the situation to Gracilis; he even admitted he had been hustled: ‘I discovered the Praetorian salary and big bonuses make us a great catch.’

  Decius Gracilis had never married. There was no idealised young girl left behind in his birthplace whom he mourned in his cups; no smelly little bundle he had visited in a native hut in Britain or Moesia, promising to regularise the arrangement once he became a veteran; no scandalous affair with a commander’s wife. It was possible his interest in Vinius had a suppressed homosexual element, though if so the centurion himself failed to recognise it and Vinius, whose attributes were clear, had never felt threatened. ‘Does this marriage mean you keep trying to wangle home leave?’

  Vinius grinned. ‘No, sir; I manage to avoid domestication.’ Excellent. The centurion mentally dismissed the wife, not giving her another thought for all the rest of their service together. How Vinius would elude Pollia had yet to emerge.

  The olive dish was empty and Vinius pushed it away across the table; they went through a brief mime querying whether to order another but deciding to stay as they were. Gracilis plucked at a still unfinished saucer of shellfish. Vinius signalled to a waiter for another round of drinks, his turn. They were emptying beakers at a steady pace, nothing excessive but no holding back. It indicated their complete off-duty relaxation and let Vinius forget his personal life.

  He looked as if he felt better for talking. Gracilis supposed Vinius had just needed a few drinks.

  ‘So…’ Here came the inevitable question from Gracilis. A new Praetorian wanted to evaluate their Emperor. ‘He’s been in for a year. What’s he like?’

  Vinius glanced around before he answered. They were seated on benches in a small internal courtyard, beneath a pergola vine. Sparrows minded their own business as they hopped after crumbs. Other customers were taken up with their own conversation and none were sitting too close. But Gracilis noticed the look and approved.

  Vinius took his time answering: ‘Well — he’s not Titus.’

  Gracilis cocked his head, unfazed. ‘A complete bastard? Well, we like a challenge.’

  ‘I think he’ll give us that.’

  ‘You’ve been up close?’

  ‘C
omes with the job, sir.’

  ‘So is he your magic sponsor?’ This complication had to be factored in before Gracilis definitely invited Vinius to work with him.

  ‘I bloody well hope not. I know when I may have caught his eye, but nothing definite was ever said. I like to keep my head below the parapet.’

  Good lad! ‘So does he talk to his Guards?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does he talk to you?’

  ‘No.’ Vinius preferred to forget their odd moment on the Capitol after the fire.

  ‘Thank you, Mars!.. I might have been worried about you, young man.’

  ‘I would be anxious myself! But he doesn’t talk to anybody. If there is a problem, it’s that he keeps his own company — too much, some say. He locks himself away. He goes for long walks, alone. Nobody knows what to make of him — and if you ask me, he does it all on purpose; he likes creating anxiety.’

  ‘Does protecting him get awkward?’

  ‘No.’ Vinius considered the question further, but stuck with his initial assessment. ‘No, he accepts protection.’

  ‘Is he concerned about his safety?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Well that helps!’ Gracilis took a deep swallow of his wine. He was thinking. In the opinion of the other ranks, chief centurions did not bother with thought. He, like most centurions, saw himself as different, more astute, more intense, thoroughly commendable.

  He reckoned Vinius had spotted being assessed. Vinius had changed since Britain. He had become fatalistic. There was a hard edge to him. That could do no harm. The world was hard.

  A waiter brought new wine. Gracilis watched Vinius pour, steadying the flagon’s neck on the rim of the beaker instead of holding it above as most people thought good-mannered. Noticing his stare, Vinius explained that after losing his eye he could no longer focus length. Generally he managed. His one-eyed field of vision was almost as wide as it would be with two; only objects on his far right required him to turn his head. But, he freely told Gracilis, he was apt to tip liquor all over the table, even when sober, and he loathed going down steps.