Lindsey Davis - Master and God

The fifth hour was when most shops drew across their shutters. People were at lunch; the sixth hour would be their rest period. Few people were about. In this traditionally quiet time, Rome basked. Shabby dogs curled against house walls, asleep. From behind upper floor window shutters came the sound of an unhappy baby mithering. Further along, Clodianus smelt fried food and heard the routine knock of cutlery on pottery.

He turned left, to reach the Forum at the western end, marching faster as he passed the Arch of Titus; he was still relaxed but purposeful. With the House of the Vestals on his right, he crossed the uneven ancient slabs of the Sacred Way then climbed up the steep approach to the Palatine. All the Guards on duty knew him. They nodded in their cornicularius without question.

Inside the palace, there was no Praetorian presence. Secundus must have given the right orders.

Everything in the public areas seemed otherwise normal. Visitors, in Rome for the Games, milled around in the massive state rooms immediately beyond the grand entrance. The cornicularius pushed through the crowds and kept going.

The architect had designed this complex to astonish, delight and confuse people. Knowing it would be his last ever visit, Clodianus took more notice than usual but he did not slow down, apart from when he took care on a flight of steps. Knowing his way around, as all Guards did, he entered the imperial family’s private quarters, exquisite suites nesting deep within the more public areas. He saw no servants in the corridors.

He went quickly to the agreed rendezvous. Parthenius was there, among a small group of others. With them was Nerva, a good-looking elderly senator, who had crinkled hair above a triangular face and a gentle manner. No spare flesh on him. He looked as if he was wetting himself with terror. Clodianus recognised another man as the consul, Caesius Fronto. Fronto looked calm, though keyed-up.

Parthenius gave him a breathless update. Domitian and Stephanus were locked in; Parthenius had arranged locked doors to keep out attendants. The combatants had been closeted for a long time, too long. Noises suggested that they were still fighting, with Domitian very much alive.

Clodianus cursed. He was not surprised by what he heard. Without hesitation, he took over.

He left Parthenius fanning Nerva, who had almost collapsed with terror. They had always had a secondary plan in case Stephanus failed. Clodianus took Entellus, the secretary of petitions, with Sigerius, a junior chamberlain. Parthenius sent one of his freedmen, Maximus. The gladiator who had tried to train Stephanus tagged along.

All the doors to the private suite were still locked. Screaming was audible inside. Two voices.

Clodianus could have crashed in, using a shoulder, but he chose the quiet method. He had taken a key from Parthenius. That way, once they reached the bedroom, his arrival went almost unnoticed during the crucial first moment.

He assessed the scene: a mess. A total bloody mess. But retrievable.

Domitian and Stephanus were grappling on the bedroom floor. Both looked exhausted. Stephanus had stabbed Domitian in the groin. There was blood, blood everywhere. The Emperor had grabbed the dagger with his hands; his fingers were lacerated. The dagger was lying a long way from where they were now.

Stephanus had facial wounds. Domitian had tried to gouge out his eyes. Stephanus must have been stabbed too at some point; his condition looked critical.

Someone else was there, someone who should not have been. Crouching petrified was the long-haired boy who tended Domitian’s personal gods in a bedroom shrine. Palpitating with terror, the Lares boy had frozen beside the massive bed. The Emperor must have screamed for him to bring the knife he kept under its scented, silken pillows. A scabbard had skittered across the marble. All the boy was holding was a pommel with its blade removed: again, Parthenius’ work.

Attendants loyal to Domitian were battering at other doors. Time had run out.

Armed with daggers by Parthenius, the men who came in with Clodianus moved in and tackled Domitian. Entellus, Sigerius, Maximus stabbed him, one after another, a further seven times. Still, he refused to die.

The squad stood back, shaking their heads at Domitian’s resilience. The freedmen were cool enough; they did well. Only the gladiator had no heart for it. Elsewhere in the imperial suite, doors abruptly crashed inwards. There were shouts; people approaching. Clodianus signalled the others to make themselves scarce. They disappeared, leaving a swathe of bloody footprints. Stephanus stayed, too badly hurt to escape yet struggling again to come at Domitian.

Attendants burst in. Making a concerted effort, they pulled Stephanus away from Domitian and killed the steward. Fair enough. It was always convenient if a murderer was finished off at the scene. No messy trial, one neat culprit to be blamed. You could almost wonder cynically if Parthenius had planned that.

Parthenius came into the room.

Domitian was gasping grotesquely, and still snaking sluggishly around the floor. Seeing a Praetorian, Clodianus, his protege, he desperately tried to speak. Clodianus gestured to the others to stay back. He heard Parthenius give calm orders to the servants. That still left the problem.

What was your thinking when you involved yourself?

He was going to die anyway…

Clodianus trod carefully across the floor. Astonishing how far one small drop of blood could spread, as it flattened on the marble in a fine spray. Astonishing how much other gore from the two combatants had spurted, pooled and jellied. Above one glistening, bloodstained area flies already circled with morbid fascination.

Domitian was now nearly gone. His eyelids drooped, probably no longer seeing anything. Impossible to say whether he knew this man standing above him, or realised what his final assailant was about to do.

Without a word, Clodianus drew his sword. He knelt beside the Emperor and thrust it in hard. The flesh closed and gripped his blade, but he twisted it out with the savage pull that legionaries used when despatching an enemy: a second wrench that made the original blow certain.

He did not need to look. Domitian was now dead.

Clodianus pulled off his red tunic, hauling it past his belt and sword scabbard. He wiped the blood from his sword, cleaning it thoroughly, sheathed it and tossed the wet garment away. Underneath he wore another tunic, like a civilian. As he walked past Parthenius, he met the chamberlain’s eyes and nodded. Mutual respect passed between them. They would not meet again.

In the enormous public spaces, no one seemed aware anything had happened. He walked, with his hand casually on his sword pommel, back through the palace, past the oblivious Guards on duty, out into the shock of brilliant September sunshine.

With a steady pace, Gaius Vinius — never again to be Clodianus — retraced his route down from the Palatine, back across the Forum and along the Vicus Longus. The same dogs were asleep in almost unchanged positions and the same baby was fretfully crying. This time he had the sun behind him. He could feel it, warm and cheering on his back, as he returned to the Sixth Region where for years he and the woman of his heart had rented an apartment, the apartment they were now leaving.

He reached Plum Street, found his waiting girl, picked up her hand luggage, shouldered his own, whistled the dog, and walked them briskly to the station house of the First Cohort of vigiles. Scorpus had kept the cart safe for him: a builder’s cart bought from his brother and already laden, an unassuming dray with a comfortable ox, nothing to make anyone look twice. Builders’ carts had a special licence to be on the streets during the normal ban on wheeled vehicles. Leaving now, they would avoid the incoming surge of evening traffic.