Master and God

by Lindsey Davis

  Sometimes an informer’s involvement was casual. Every evening the actor Latinus would drop by the imperial quarters while Domitian was relaxing, and amuse him with the day’s gossip. Names to investigate then came into the Praetorian office the next morning on chits from Domitian’s palace freedmen.

  At the lowest end of society were slaves who betrayed their masters and mistresses. Strictly speaking, it was illegal for slaves to act as witnesses against their owners, but a device had always existed to get around that; they were first bought by the state, using compulsory purchase orders. Although penalties for disloyal slaves were severe, in practice they stood to gain large financial rewards, plus their freedom. One harsh word at home could make them eager for that.

  Domitian used defecting slaves as a constant resource nowadays. No one was safe from hostile eyes in the dining room, hostile ears in the bedroom. Clodianus was not obliged to involve himself in domestic enquiries, the Urban Cohorts did that; but as ex-vigiles his expertise had been recognised. He could give the Urbans a steer about which doors to knock on, when the door should be kicked down instead, whether interviewing slaves in a discreet bar might work, or when the slaves should just be picked up and tortured without ceremony.

  Although the moral conduct laws offered the most notorious possibilities, many other charges were made. It was not all bad news. Abuse of office had once been rife — either overseas governors who acted like bandits in their provinces or officials in Rome who took bribes. Proving bribery could be difficult because the donor had also committed an offence and if they achieved what they wanted, they kept quiet afterwards. In fact, Domitian’s reign showed a marked decline in abuses of office, due to his obsessive control over appointments.

  Otherwise, the crimes Clodianus regularly looked into were usury (which was illegal but of course happened everywhere), inheritance fraud (often keeping quiet about a will in order to avoid paying tax), and religious deception; that mainly involved Jews who, for financial reasons, pretended not to be Jewish. A tax of two denarii per head was imposed on Jewish men, women, children and the elderly, and also converts; it was used to build and maintain the Capitoline Temple of Jupiter, a deliberate humiliation as it replaced a tithe previously paid by Jewish males to maintain their Temple in Jerusalem, which Titus had destroyed. Many tried to escape this tax. If there was no other solution, men’s tunics were lifted to see if they were circumcised.

  There were fictitious adoptions or supposititious births (frauds for inheritance reasons, occasionally to conceal adultery, but sometimes just because a couple were childless). Absenting oneself from the Games or public feasts drew attention; maybe someone just had a reclusive nature or was easily bored, but it was viewed as a protest against the government. For a man to abstain from public office when he was qualified to stand looked similarly dubious, a subversive refusal to support Domitian — which he took personally. Publishing, or just privately writing, seditious or libellous material was inevitably fatal. Using magic (anything from witchcraft to mathematics), or possessing somebody else’s horoscope, especially that of the Emperor, was illegal and carried a scandalous frisson that enlivened a trial and generally guaranteed a conviction.

  Many thought such cases involved unpalatable intrusion into domestic life. Once an informer had handed in a name to the authorities, even on a spurious excuse, investigation inevitably followed, often carried out with physical violence. Clodianus did not beat people up. He just sometimes gave the orders and occasionally had to watch.

  There were risks. To make an accusation that could not be substantiated ultimately ran up big financial penalties, plus lasting disrepute. In order to be seen cleaning up the courts, Domitian made a point of being harsh with informers who laid false claims. To expose rotten prosecutors suited his austere image of himself, however guilty he was of the same evil. Danger from Domitian’s judicial rigour threatened even the highest; a potentially illustrious career could be ruined by one misjudged court case.

  On the other hand, lucrative careers were made out of prosecuting malicious informers…

  Vinius Clodianus thought himself dispassionate. He genuinely fought the temptation to slip over the boundary from fairness into something much blacker. It would have been easy for him to become corrupt. That threatened to happen over Flavia Lucilla’s ex-husband, the second time she and Clodianus clashed about his work. With so many victims being denounced, endless people feared they might come under suspicion after some slip-up. One, it transpired, being Nemurus.

  Domitian’s annual games at Alba in honour of his patron goddess Minerva were close to his heart. That March, Statius had submitted a poem called de Bello Germanico, ‘On the German War’, a honeyed paean to the new conqueror of the Chatti and Dacians. Its author was thrilled when he won the poetry prize and received a scintillating gold wreath from Domitian’s own hand.

  The Capitoline Games in Rome in October were a much grander occasion. These were a revival of ancient festivities, the famous Naples Games which had ceased to be held after the eruption of Vesuvius. Modelled by Domitian on the Greek Olympics, they were held every four years in Rome and lasted sixteen days. Competitors came from all over the Empire. Statius absolutely expected to repeat his success in the Latin poetry section, hoping to beat off scores of rivals and win international acclaim. He thought Domitian was his patron, not seeing that Domitian’s sponsorship could be capricious. For one thing, the Emperor loathed any suspicion that his actions could be predicted. Once it was assumed he favoured any individual, that person was finished.

  Statius was stunned when this time he failed to win. He was so devastated, it would drive him home to Naples, abandoning the stress of competition. That caused family problems, because his wife Claudia was reluctant to leave Rome; her daughter was sixteen, a talented musician making a career, entirely the wrong age to be left alone. But once Statius felt he had lost Domitian’s patronage, retirement seemed the safe option. At least Domitian never turned on him. Statius would now quietly teach, write his intended masterpiece about Achilles, and publish poems he had previously only circulated informally.

  From the moment Statius lost the prize, his friends were unsettled. Lucilla learned that some were questioning their safety. Even Nemurus thought he was vulnerable, despite the fact teachers were generally respected. Domitian, who remained childless with Domitia, had recently named two young sons of his cousin Flavia Domitilla as his heirs and made much of appointing the grammarian Quintilian to be their tutor at court. Quintilian was an advocate and rhetorician, the first to be awarded a state salary, under Vespasian. After teaching for twenty years, in a school that had brought him unusual wealth, he retired to write a groundbreaking treatise on rhetoric; it defied contemporary taste by favouring content over style, it was a treasure trove of sane rules for composition, humane advice to teachers and good sense.

  When Quintilian was made imperial tutor, Nemurus was vain enough to be jealous. Lucilla had heard about it from friends, laughing because anyone could see Nemurus was not in the same league. Lucilla ran into him at the Capitoline Games, when the old literary group clustered to commiserate with Statius after his loss. Milling among them was her ex-husband.

  Nemurus approached Lucilla with a manner so friendly she was suspicious at once. He had even brought her a present: Ovid’s love poems. The gift itself was unexpected, and it seemed an odd choice.

  ‘I should never have insisted you return all the books I had lent you, dear. I am proud to have fostered your love for reading. This is a peace offering.’ Lucilla had worked at the court long enough; she recognised a bribe. ‘Please, I need to talk to you… In private.’

  Curiosity made her agree. As it seemed so urgent, they left the others temporarily and walked off together outside the theatre in the centre of Rome where the poetry contest had been held. Though October, the night was mild and the atmosphere civilised. They found a bench.

  ‘This is a delicate…’ Sighing, Lucilla waited for details. ‘They
are rounding up philosophers and exiling them.’

  It was not new. Even in Vespasian’s time it had happened. New expulsions were imposed by Domitian last year, with the philosopher Epictetus among his victims. More seemed unavoidable. One reason was that a hardened group of Flavian opponents, connected with the stoics, routinely insulted whoever was emperor. They had tackled Vespasian then Titus; Domitian must be due his turn — and like his predecessors, sooner or later he would be driven to react.

  Nemurus, a stoic himself, was highly agitated. ‘I need a favour. Spies are everywhere. If anybody questions you about me, will you say that I only teach literature? That I never touch philosophy?’

  ‘Come clean: what have you done, Nemurus?’

  ‘After our divorce, perhaps unwisely I decided to devote myself to philosophy — which is of course merely the pursuit of a virtuous life.’

  ‘Who could argue with that?’ Lucilla knew the authorities did.

  Shyly, Nemurus owned up: ‘For a time, I let my hair grow. I had a beard and wore the philosopher’s robe. I even refused to eat meat, and only took what nature gives us without the need to kill fellow creatures.’

  Lucilla tried not to laugh. People had told her Nemurus was despondent after she left him, yet becoming a vegetarian and wearing a long beard seemed an extreme reaction to divorce. ‘How Greek! But, sadly for my profession, there is no law against terrible hair.’

  ‘Please do not joke. My beard may have been noticed by the wrong people.’

  ‘Well, dear, I can truthfully say I knew nothing about it.’ Lucilla wondered what Nemurus looked like with a beard — and winced. ‘But why would anybody ask me?’

  She saw Nemurus’ face cloud. ‘Your Praetorian Guard might take a vindictive interest.’

  ‘No! He has no reason to pick on you.’

  ‘He was staring at us earlier outside the theatre,’ Nemurus insisted. Lucilla thought he must have imagined this. ‘It is not the first time he imposed his baleful presence!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Once he marched into a lecture I was giving.’

  ‘Vinius?’

  ‘Had to be him. One-eyed man, scowling like thunder. Came and sat at the back.’

  ‘So what was your lecture?’ demanded Lucilla, in amazement.

  ‘On metre. “Dactylic Hexameters or Hendecasyllabic Iambs? Epic glide or elective limp — the poet’s dilemma”.’

  When talking informally, Lucilla knew, Nemurus had insightful views on how poets chose their metre and line length. Given wine, he could even be amusing on scansion. Set on a public platform, however, he was a nervy speaker, who muttered down at his notes even though he was trying to show off. She commented with a smile, ‘That must have been uncomfortable — for both of you.’

  ‘He did not linger!’ Nemurus admitted.

  They had been married, successfully at one time. Now anybody watching would have seen them burst into shared laughter, ruefully and with their heads together, like children giggling at a rude word.

  ‘Well,’ Lucilla assured him kindly, ‘I shall protect you. But Vinius and I are not as close as you think. We never even speak these days.’

  ‘I find that odd.’ Nemurus sounded sarcastic, as he rose to depart. ‘Especially as the man is standing in the shadows over there, observing us right now.’

  Lucilla refused to look that way, but she made a point of jumping up and kissing Nemurus on the cheek before he left her. Startled, he made a clumsy half-response, but she dodged that and sat down again.

  She remained waiting on the bench, pulling her light stole up over her hair and rearranging the bangles on her arm.

  As she expected, Vinius came into the open and marched over.

  ‘Cosy scene. Does he want you back? He bears gifts, I see!’

  ‘Rather out of character. There must have been a remainder sale.’ This was disloyal to Nemurus but Lucilla hoped to distract Vinius. ‘Ovid. The Art of Love contains advice for women on how to look attractive — “a round-faced girl should pile her hair in a topknot” — hardly news to a trained hairdresser.’ At the end of the poem, Lucilla happened to know, were extremely frank lists of positions for lovemaking. Some she would never have thought of. Most seemed feasible. She wondered: had Nemurus been using this book as pornography? ‘This will interest you, Vinius — Ovid was exiled, for mysterious reasons, which may involve promiscuous relations with the Emperor Augustus’ raunchy daughter. They stuck him in Tomis which is, I believe, at the far edge of Dacia.’

  ‘Poor bloody bugger!’ exclaimed Vinius forcefully.

  Lucilla tightened her grip on the scroll and rattled her bangles again. ‘Why are you spying on my ex-husband?’

  ‘The man does not concern me.’

  ‘So I told him. But you once went into a lecture he gave?’

  ‘Just curious. When you were married, did you have to knit his socks?’

  Lucilla tried not to react. ‘His mother makes them. Vinius, don’t menace him; leave him alone, will you?’

  ‘Oh, have I got him worried?’ demanded Gaius cheerfully.

  ‘Don’t abuse your office. I rely on you to be fair.’

  ‘Fair?’ Rely?

  ‘Your decency was the first thing that struck me when you worked with the vigiles. Vinius, I want to believe in you. There have to be good men, when everyone swims in a sewer of treachery.’

  Gaius listened, looking unemotional.

  ‘I wish you were back there,’ Lucilla told him in a morose voice. ‘You made your own choices. You were aware of human failings, yet you stood for enlightenment. You were honest. You were even kindly.’

  ‘Within reason.’

  ‘I would take your reason over Domitian’s fake benevolence any day. Don’t lose your humanity.’

  ‘You think I changed?’

  ‘Dacia changed you.’

  ‘ You changed me.’

  ‘Do not blame me. Working for the Emperor is your own choice.’

  Gaius thought Lucilla’s assessment was right. Society had tipped up and gone topsy-turvy. While Domitian pretended to nurture correct behaviour, he undermined it. Everyone now behaved like shits. As the despot supposedly reinforced Rome’s moral system, he was destroying it. He, Vinius Clodianus, was helping. He was an instrument of the police state. He had taken the oath. He accepted the not inconsiderable money. He followed orders.

  In doing so, had he lost his own values and his independence?

  Lucilla stood and began to walk away. She did not give Vinius the farewell kiss she had given Nemurus; Vinius noted that bitterly. As she marched off to find her friends again, he called out one last appeal.

  ‘Flavia Lucilla! I don’t suppose you have ever considered that somewhere in all the years we have known one another, I might have fallen in love with you?’

  Lucilla stopped and looked back. Since people had told her he was still married to Caecilia, this soul-baring did not endear him. ‘Never!’

  ‘You might give it thought.’

  The last thing Gaius wanted as he strode away in the opposite direction was for a wraith to manifest itself among the monumental architecture, then to be confronted by her bloody husband.

  ‘Clodianus!’ cried the ghastly Nemurus, as he popped up like a ghost in a bad Saturnalia story. ‘I take it amiss that you destroyed my marriage, stole away my wife — yet you have not had the decency to make her happy.’

  The man was ludicrous. When seen close up he was also much younger than the fusty, self-neglecting academic that Vinius wanted to envisage. Nemurus must be similar in age to Lucilla. He looked as if he might even throw a ball around at the gym, though probably one stuffed with feathers. He bit his fingernails, perhaps absent-mindedly while reading.

  ‘Not my fault!’ retorted Vinius. ‘I would have taken her on — the poor girl deserves some excitement — but she loathes what I stand for.’

  ‘I heard that,’ Nemurus exulted. Vinius cursed. It was doubly annoying for a spying Guard to disco
ver he had been spied on. ‘You need public speaking lessons. Decorum, man! Telling a woman you love her ought to be an act of worship — not hurled at her as a punishment.’

  This was where Vinius became tempted to abuse his power. He was too frustrated to hold back. He lowered his voice and threatened Nemurus: ‘ I have seen your name on a list. ’

  Nemurus, no actor, was visibly perturbed.

  ‘Luckily for you, it is not my list.’

  Nemurus could not know whether to believe this: if any list really existed; if so, what list it was, or whose; or what Vinius proposed to do about it. That was how fear worked these days.

  Whether or not Nemurus had been denounced, his panic told Vinius that he must be guilty of something, even if it was unprovable chicken-stealing. Nemurus had just given himself away before he was even under suspicion.

  ‘I do not descend to the personal,’ claimed Vinius piously. ‘If I am ordered to exterminate you, you’re done for. But I don’t lean on people without evidence. What is your secret, by the way? — I bet I know. I bet you are an undercover republican. Or are you a conspiratorial philosopher? What’s your fancy? Cynic? Sophist? Stoic?’

  ‘I am slightly unnerved to think of the Guards studying ethics.’