Master and God

by Lindsey Davis

  Lucilla nodded, looking amused. Nothing for wifey?

  Don’t be cheeky!

  Vinius had a thought. ‘Doesn’t the agent have responsibilities — cleaning? maintenance?’

  ‘I already gave instructions,’ Lucilla informed him. ‘The slaves have to knock and wait to be admitted. They must keep the entrance tidy so the apartment looks lived in, but they can only work indoors when one of us is here to supervise.’

  ‘That man Melissus wanted me to pay for a porter and a cook.’

  ‘I said no. He wasn’t happy.’

  ‘Good girl. Those bastards try anything to push the price up… That seems to cover everything.’ Vinius sounded almost disappointed.

  Before he left, Gaius Vinius held out one hand and they formally shook on their partnership. Both kept it brisk.

  Oddly, when Lucilla ate her supper that evening, the apartment seemed unduly still. Their choppy conversation had affected her; she noticed her heart pattering.

  Gaius Vinius was a man; he expected to dominate. He would learn better.

  On leaving Plum Street, Vinius met his brother in a bar, as he did from time to time. Naturally Flavia Lucilla became a subject of conversation. Fortunatus needed to be reassured that his young brother would be able to tolerate her; there was nothing so awkward as a financial arrangement that failed to work out… ‘I only saw her all veiled up, but they say she’s tasty.’

  ‘Passable,’ shrugged Gaius.

  With male complacence, he reflected that his assessment that first time he met her had been right; Flavia Lucilla had grown up quite attractively. The scrawny girl had filled out and fluffed up, fulfilling his prophecy to such an extent Gaius Vinius preened himself on his astuteness.

  Fortunatus led a blameless life. His wife ensured that he ate dinner at home, every night without exception. She was also prone to turning up at whatever site he was working on, to bring his lunch, or for some other domestic reason, at unexpected times of day. His men joked that Galatia came to pick him up and take him home safely when they knocked off work, though that was untrue; she frequently left Fortunatus to find his own way home since, after all, he was not a schoolboy.

  He was eager that his young brother should enjoy more excitement.

  ‘Are you screwing her?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Out of pity, Gaius went along with his brother’s need to be titillated. As Fortunatus drooled with jealousy, Gaius quipped, ‘She will have to wait until I’m in a good mood.’

  O Jupiter. Gaius, you lucky beggar!

  Fortunatus concluded their gossip in his favourite way. He was master of the well-placed fart.

  Vinius went home to his own house where in due course he made love to his wife. There was no point a man being married unless he availed himself of his rights if ever, and indeed whenever, he had the opportunity.

  Supposing that intercourse would make him approachable, Verania afterwards asked if it was true that the Emperor had raised the pay of the armed forces. Vinius pretended it was just a rumour. Luckily his salary, after deductions, was paid into the soldiers’ savings bank; that was kept in armoured chests under the shrine at the Praetorian Camp, well beyond the grasp of wives who were, after all, not supposed to exist.

  Domitian had in truth given the troops an astonishing raise; he had increased pay across the board by a third. Who knew what the damage to the Treasury was — but who cared? It made the soldiers happy and secured the army’s loyalty.

  They approved of more than that. Although the literary commentators who had stayed in Rome picking their noses all satirised the new Germanicus for indulging in a fake Triumph, the soldiers assessed his expedition differently. They could see how invading the Chatti formed part of the careful strategy to beef up frontiers against the very real threat of invasion. And Domitian now had another success. News came that Agricola, the governor of Britain, had won a major battle against the northern British tribes in some wild place called Mons Graupius; he brought more of the island under Roman control than had ever happened before (or would ever happen again).

  All this made for a good mood in the army. The legions might never love Domitian as they had Vespasian and Titus, with their grasp of logistics, brilliance at siege warfare and willingness to be in the thick of it, fighting hand to hand. But Domitian had won the troops over.

  He would need that. Because it soon became clear he was gripped by an obsession that he had enemies everywhere.

  9

  Paris. Paris the actor and dancer… Domitian decided that Paris had become Domitia Longina’s lover. The Emperor frequently brooded alone on this subject, but once he began goading his suspect wife, everyone was mesmerised.

  When are you going to confess?

  Oh please! Not that again.

  He is your lover; admit it.

  I would not demean myself.

  You must take me for an idiot.

  No, dear; you’re just sick…

  Lucilla and Lara witnessed some of the upsets.

  As Lara said, it must be hard trying to throw yourself into a rampaging private quarrel, when so many other people surrounded you. The Empress always had her attendants; the Emperor trailed his bodyguard. Scores of other functionaries roamed adjacent staterooms and corridors, with hundreds elsewhere in the palace. Their presence was physically oppressive and accompanied by a permanent level of noise. Slaves had no incentive to do their work quietly. People waiting for an audience would gossip, cough and make complaints. Freedmen from the imperial secretariats called out to one another loudly as they traversed intersections or bent their heads over scrolls in corners of peristyle gardens, speaking up over the mumbling of gardeners and the splash of fountains.

  They were in Rome. The Emperor needed to be on the spot; he was reviewing his huge city rebuild. Civic works took precedence, as his architects reconstructed the fire damage; there would be many new buildings too: a remodelled overflow forum, new temples for the deified Vespasian and Titus and for Domitian’s favourite gods, extra entertainment facilities. Until he fulfilled plans to monumentalise imperial accommodation on the Palatine, his family stayed in the Domus Aurea, Nero’s Golden House; the Flavians had always indicated they would only be lodgers in that notorious extravaganza but so far other building projects took priority and after more than ten years they were still here. The exquisitely decorated corridors and intricately linked rooms gave ample opportunity for sweeping about in a rage.

  Flavia Domitilla, who was herself pregnant again and lumbering uncomfortably, had lent Lara and Lucilla to her cousin the Empress, to ease well-reported marital problems. Nothing had been mentioned openly — nothing ever was — but they understood it was their task to support Domitia Longina as she tried to prevent her marriage unravelling. She was a woman who looked too determined to be beaten by a quarrel. She had a strong hooked nose any general would be proud of, full cheeks and an incipient double chin; yet she was pampered enough to believe in her own looks, and of course still young.

  Within the suite where they were styling Domitia, cushion-plumpers and tray-bearers came and went as if their minor errands were all important. The surroundings were sumptuous, wearying to the eye, a clutter of overstuffed upholstery, drapes and often startling statues. A rash of ornate daybeds and side-tables filled the cavernous room, among towering stone candelabra whose last night’s smoke still lingered.

  The day began as routine. When Domitian burst in, everyone froze. Always prone to blushing, he had coloured up. His wife tensed, though she hid it. The two sisters saw a marital fight coming. Some attendants scattered. Lara and Lucilla followed protocol, abruptly standing still with lowered eyes. Domitian was prowling between them and the double doors he had flung open; they could not make a discreet withdrawal.

  Domitia had had ten years of practice with her husband. The trick was to let him be the centre of attention.

  I know you had an affair.

  You are winding yourself up needlessly.

  Stop lying to me…


  There had certainly been a shift in this famous marriage. Domitian had returned from Europe suffering agonies of jealousy. It seemed to blow up from nowhere, though Lucilla suspected Domitia Longina had unwittingly contributed. She had misplayed her position when left behind in Rome. In the anticlimax after his campaign and triumph, the new Germanicus was now all too ready to ponder uncomfortably on what might have happened in his absence. Domitian never liked feeling left out, even though he preferred solitude. Now he had a new game: brooding over these fears that his wife had been unfaithful.

  If the ‘visit to Gaul’ had been merely ceremonial, Domitia Longina might have gone abroad with him. Although he took courtiers, she did not escort her husband. She was Corbulo’s daughter. She could have stomached a few weeks of pecking at unusual titbits among men with moustaches and trousers. But Roman commanders did not take high-born wives into battle, which had always been the expedition’s real purpose. So she was left in Rome.

  Problems had begun when their son died. They had lost their young boy and were not coping well. Domitia was both grieving and resenting any pressure for her to immediately produce another heir. Breeding called for conjugal relations. There were doubts whether that was happening.

  The couple guarded their privacy. People were not even sure how many children they had produced; if they ever had a daughter too, as some believed, her little life must have been even shorter than the boy’s. His existence was recorded; he was pictured on coins; now he was shown among the stars, dead and deified.

  Neither of his parents could open up and talk about it. In a festering atmosphere of secrecy, Domitian’s response to loss was as strangulated as always. They gave each other no consolation. Domitia froze; Domitian consorted with his eunuchs. Domitia tolerated that, since at least he had not taken a senatorial mistress who would usurp her position. There had been strife, though not a rift, but when he left for the north it must have been a relief to both of them. For Domitia, his absence brought unprecedented freedom.

  If you worked it out, as Lucilla thoughtfully did, Corbulo’s daughter had never before been allowed any independence. Second child of a strong father, she was married very young, to Aelius Lamia; she was still an inexperienced bride when Domitian invited her to Alba and persuaded her to divorce her husband. Domitian was eighteen, Domitia even younger. Adolescents. Immature and thrilled. Lucilla imagined them marvelling that after both being children of disgraced fathers under Nero, they now had a glorious reprieve. Domitian was a star in a brand new ruling dynasty and, during the first heady days of their love affair, he was even his father’s representative in Rome.

  They faced a wobble when Vespasian pressed Domitian to marry his brother’s daughter, but Domitian held out for his soulmate. The link to Corbulo’s family had attractions so they were allowed their wish. Domitia moved from one marriage directly into another, but Vespasian insisted they lived with him; it was to enable Domitian’s initiation into government, but it meant that for ten years they never had a home of their own.

  Now she was Domitia Augusta, first lady of the Empire; her image was on the currency; she had the same privileges as the Vestal Virgins. So what did she do when, for almost a year, she was left to her own devices with no head of household? Domitia Longina spent long hours flopping on couches, bored. She chatted to friends. She visited her sister. She spent money. She spent more money — though not too much because the Flavians were infamously frugal. In private she dwelt on her loss as a mother, which was not only tragic but diminished her influence as Domitian’s Empress. Then, she ordered up her curtained litter and went to the theatre.

  Of course she admired Paris. Paris was brilliant.

  The Roman establishment had a mixed reaction to pantomime. It was a form of dramatic performance that came from the east, particularly Syria, although Paris — this particular Paris, for he used a traditional stage name — was Egyptian. Exotic, risque cultures raised hackles in grumpy Roman conservatives. Rome’s founding fathers, lean men ploughing cold furrows in between fighting fierce enemies, would find this theatrical genre distasteful, while the danger that posturing matinee idols would seduce noblewomen caused horror. Mimes came into frequent contact with such ladies, who threw themselves at performers.

  Pantomime presentations, retelling Greek myths, had spectacular stage effects and lavish costumes, so productions were expensive. It was a callisthenic art. It featured rhythmic dance. Sometimes there was an orchestra or merely a sinuous flute, but always percussion. One man, mysteriously masked and with a well-honed body, would perform all the parts in a story while a soloist or chorus sang the lyrics. It was said that a good pantomime talked with his hands. Husbands knew what they thought that meant. They knew where the bastard’s hands were likely to be put when offstage.

  Pantomime artistes made extravagant claims on their tombstones that they had led chaste lives. This was to refute satirists, who told the public that pantomimes corrupted morals, the morals of women in particular, although everyone thought the dancing bastards were not picky. They, or at least the theatrical masks they wore, had long hair, which always offends traditionalists. The greatest performer of his day, Mnester, had been put to death for an affair with that byword for voracious sexuality, the Empress Messalina. The Senate had banned mime performances in private homes, and forbade the aristocratic young from joining in dancers’ processions. Rivalry between their fans occasionally led to riots. Sometimes pantomime artistes were exiled — not often enough, said the prudish.

  Nevertheless, these cult performers flourished. With huge incomes and celebrity acclaim, plus close contact with the upper classes, they easily became arrogant. Their influence at court was wildly over-estimated; Paris was reputed to control army postings and other rewards, though that hardly squared with the Emperor’s own determination to supervise all appointments himself.

  Always caught between his liking for the arts and his self-imposed role as moral arbiter, Domitian enjoyed the pantomime and had seriously admired Paris. That was until he convinced himself that Paris had slept with his wife.

  Lara and Lucilla had been to watch Paris perform, though at long distance because their tickets consigned them to the upper rows of the theatre, where women and slaves were segregated. They could see enough to understand his powerful stage presence. Exhilarated themselves by the stirring dance rhythms and by his acting, they had realised that in gazing too long at Paris Domitia Longina was courting trouble. Rumours started. Whether there was anything in those rumours then hardly mattered.

  Naturally she was chaperoned. She arrived by closed litter, though the imperial litter was instantly recognisable. To those wanting scandal its curtains, though normal, suggested concealment. Then if she sat, veiled, in the imperial box, there were plenty who would criticise her for appearing in public at all during her husband’s absence. Besides, an imperial lady’s veil tended to be pinned on behind her coronet of curls, leaving her face visible.

  Perhaps Domitia did make contact with Paris, though Lucilla thought a face-to-face meeting would put her off sex. She could imagine it. Tiptoeing to the dressing room door with the frisson of danger… Then finding that the actor-dancer was older, less cultured and more paunchy than he appeared on stage. Inevitable disappointment. Backstage was hardly glamorous: the aura of liquor, the actual shabbiness of seemingly fabulous costumes, the dancer’s skin coarsened and greasy from the stage makeup, the poverty of conversation from a person who relied on scripts, his difficult Egyptian Greek, his caricature Greek Latin… Still, nobody went to a heart-throb to talk.

  Was the man one of those easterners who were ‘not safe in palanquins’? Did he have the oriental habit (Lucilla and Lara had both endured it) of backing any woman into a corner, or even launching himself upon her, never caring about witnesses and not hearing protests?

  Or perhaps it was all as Domitian dreaded. Perhaps the Empress really had tripped off to some dangerous rendezvous, where she betrayed her husband.

&n
bsp; I must tell you my admiration for your delightful and moving performance.

  Augusta, the delight is mine! Please let me move you some more by tumbling you lasciviously among these convenient stage-props.

  Oh I can’t — Oh I want to — I can…

  The Emperor believed what he wanted to believe.

  Tell me what you did, every detail.

  There is nothing to tell.

  Domitian remained wildly distrustful. His misery gnawed; he bitterly analysed every facet of his wife’s behaviour. It got him nowhere; there was no evidence. Even if there had been proof of her innocence, he would have disbelieved it. Her declarations of good faith went unheard. Failing to prove the unprovable made him more aggressive. Lara thought Domitia Longina was afraid he would become violent.

  So the couple tussled endlessly. They were equally matched, both strong personalities. Neither had had many friends; they had always relied on each other. Nothing would dissuade Domitian. Nothing would cow Domitia. Their quarrels surged and died, then flared again. One or the other would brood on the latest slights, then rampage through anterooms seeking a new fight.

  I’ve been watching you.

  You saw nothing then.

  I’ll be the judge…

  On that fatal day when Domitian stormed in, the sisters were eventually shooed out by a chamberlain. Uncertain what would happen next, they sat side by side on stone benches outside the room. The corridor was crammed. Attendants of all sorts waited for the current tempest to die down.

  That was the day he ordered her to leave.

  Sharp intake of breath from everybody. The court was riveted.

  It was a shock, but Corbulo’s daughter would not plead. For one thing, he threatened to execute her, so it made sense to get away fast. Once Domitian told her to go, she just packed a few things (by an empress’s standards; her luggage required a mule train). Then she left him.

  Domitian was caught on the hop. That must have consoled her — though with him so volatile, she remained at risk.