Lindsey Davis - Master and God

Domitian turned his head. Vinius was staring directly at him. Since it was impossible to disguise this, he cleared his throat and said, ‘I see you looking down the Via Flaminia, sir. That was the natural limit of the fire, because the intense heat on the Campus Martius caused an in-draught. Air rushing over the Campus created a natural firebreak.’

For speaking uninvited, Domitian could have dismissed him. Vinius stared woodenly across the distant Campus. His princely companion elected to be gracious. Vespasian, superb general that he was, had been good with common soldiers; there could be nothing but credit in talking to this one about his speciality, fire.

‘The Temple of Isis is gone, I see, soldier.’

Vinius picked up on the statement’s significance at once. He knew how Domitian had disguised himself as a devotee of Isis during his escape from the Vitellians. Dropping his voice, he acknowledged the young Caesar’s inevitable stress. ‘This must be very hard for you, sir.’

He understood why Domitian had wanted to escape from observation by his companions. He had hidden it, but all through this official visit he had been fighting down panic. He had tested himself by inspecting the Temple of Jupiter and forcing himself to look down where the Temple of Isis had been, but if he didn’t get away soon it would be too much for him. Now he urgently wanted the Capitol visit to be over, but had to make himself steady before he could return to the others and conclude it.

Vinius, who regularly endured his own nightmares, knew what was going on here. Domitian’s heart would be pounding erratically. Sweat gleamed on his high forehead. Mentally, he was back in that violent climax to the Year of the Four Emperors, shaken by terrible memories.

‘One who knows, soldier?’

‘I would not presume, Caesar.’

They shared a brief moment of fellow-feeling nonetheless. The paramilitary stood quietly; the prince’s hands were gripped in fists. Domitian admitted, ‘I nearly died that night. One assumes the memories will fade. That’s a mistake.’ Vinius glanced over again, so Domitian indicated his striking scars. ‘You must have experience of the after-effects of trauma.’

Vinius nodded. ‘Unfortunately, sir! A major shock, especially when you’re young, seems to stay with you for life.’ Since the sky failed to fall in, he continued: ‘And when the nightmares come, every man is on his own. Just when you think you are safe from the horrors, you get tired, or drunk, or simply the Fates think you are enjoying yourself too much and need to be reined in… But sometimes it’s bloody obvious why it all comes rushing back. So pardon me, Caesar, I know exactly what’s churning you up today and I don’t mean that disrespectfully. I myself wouldn’t want ever again to find whooping barbarians throwing spears towards me.’

‘Yet you are a brave man.’

‘If you say so.’ A soldier’s answer. Slightly sullen. False modesty, no doubt. I only did my duty, sir. Or true modesty perhaps. The man was visibly too tired to care. He talked, almost to keep himself awake: ‘I just know that any more action in the field would give me the shakes, I couldn’t help it. After I was wounded, I was glad to be sent back to Rome to avoid that situation. For you, sir, at the age you were that awful night, and with what happened to your uncle, coming back on the Capitol, with the Temple burned down once again, must be unbearable.’

If this conversation with Vinius had any palliative effect, Domitian would never admit it. Their exchange abruptly ended. Imperial distance resumed very fast. Without a word more, Domitian set off back towards the others.

Watch your step, Caesar.

Don’t give me orders, soldier.

The exchange had results, unfortunately.

After Vinius resumed his place with the troops, Domitian stood with the Prefect of Vigiles and asked the man’s history. By then the Prefect had quickly checked the investigator’s background, so he was able to explain the scars, another story of heroics. He also knew that Vinius Clodianus was the youngest of three sons of a dedicated officer, all three young men serving in the military. The father had been tribune of the vigiles’ Fourth Cohort, before transferring to the Praetorian Guard. He died a mere six weeks later. (The Prefect censored out how the father had spent all six weeks celebrating the achievement of his lifetime dream, drinking gross amounts of wine until, according to the medic, his brain just went off pop.)

A tragic story. Something should be done for the son, said Domitian.

People would learn that Domitian only spoke when he had darkly worked a subject through. He had a plan in mind that would meddle where Titus held authority. The idea provided a reward for Vinius and his bravery, whilst also reflecting his father’s service over many years and the disappointment that must have been felt in this whole loyal military family when the father died so suddenly. Titus, who claimed he counted a day lost if he had failed to do good to somebody, would find it impossible to quibble.

Ignorant of his fate, Gaius Vinius went home that day and slept like the dead until his wife decided he had slumbered in his filth long enough. Cruelly woken, he retreated to a cell at the station house, until eventually someone had to root him out to see their tribune.

Shambling blearily, grumbling, and still dripping from a hasty bathe, Vinius was informed of an unexpected honour: he had been posted out of the vigiles and into the Praetorian Guard.

‘Shit on a stick!’

‘This is for carrying out that charred priest, I imagine. Look as if you’re delighted.’ The tribune spoke dryly. He knew Vinius liked to keep his head down. ‘They are all foul-mouthed, arrogant bastards. You should fit in. You’ll be among the youngest,’ he added a little spitefully. Some vigiles had to yearn for this for years; most never made it. ‘They will love you like a new little kitten.’

‘Stuff that for a lark,’ growled Vinius at this sinister promise. He was now stuffed. His life, as he saw it, was ruined. He knew the constraints. The only benefit was that the unwanted advancement put an end to his marriage problems. He could live in the camp and never go home. He had to live in the camp, in fact.

‘From what I’ve heard of your father, he would be delighted.’

‘Yes, sir. He would be very proud.’

It must be the after-effects of the fire; as Vinius faced his future, even with his dead father’s imagined blessing, he felt sick.

The Flavian Amphitheatre was paid for by Vespasian’s booty from the Judaean wars. It took ten years to build, required a whole new quarry to provide its travertine marble fittings and facings, remained incomplete when its venerable founder passed away and was formally opened by his son Titus. The enormous and iconic gift to the people of Rome would one day be known as the Colosseum because of an adjacent hundred-foot bronze statue of Nero, which stood in the vestibule of the Golden House. All memory of Nero was being obliterated in Rome so Vespasian had added a sunray crown to reconfigure the gigantic figure as a tribute to Sol Invictus, the undying sun. He was not a man to waste anything expensive. So in his ever-genial way, he set a precedent that statues to an emperor who was damned to the memory — written out of history for abominable crimes — should be recycled. Vespasian had probably not envisaged that one day the head of the Emperor Nerva would replace that of his own son Domitian.

Since the amphitheatre was slathered in many other statues, sculptors were happy; their agents and middlemen, who took the larger share of their fees, wore even bigger smiles. When Titus dedicated the arena after the fire, suppliers of exotic animals and gladiators enjoyed a smackeroo bonanza. The opening games lasted around a hundred days, with nine thousand wild beasts slain in the process — together with some humans. The knock-on effects as obscene profits were splurged would bring joy for years to bankers, builders, silver- and goldsmiths, gourmet chefs, marble importers, traders in silks and spices, providers of carriages with expensive coachwork, undercover betting agents, suppliers of performing dwarves, and everyone in the multiple branches of the sex trade.