Lindsey Davis - Master and God

A storm blew up and scattered the pyre; dogs did descend on the half-burned corpse, and Domitian’s informer, the actor Latinus, unhelpfully told him.

During this crazy period, Gaius found himself summoned to attend at the palace with Norbanus, the more loyal Praetorian Prefect. From what he heard and saw, he became horrified that the plot was on the verge of being exposed.

Domitian would still go for walks, brooding bleakly on the danger he was in. His latest extravagance was to have huge plaques of moonstone set up, polished mirror-bright, so he could see if anyone crept up behind. Gaius reflected tetchily that there was a beautiful, completely private garden where the Emperor could have walked instead in perfect safety.

Domitian was defying danger. If the danger was real, this was bloody stupid.

Norbanus and Clodianus accompanied the Emperor as ordered. It was a fitful stroll. Domitian paced in short, agitated spurts, gaining no benefit from the exercise. He never relaxed; he was tight with anxiety.

The fragments of conversation Gaius managed to overhear as the Emperor and the Prefect marched up and down ahead of him confirmed everything that was said about Domitian: he was secretive and treacherous, he was crafty and vindictive. He must have got wind of something. He was excitedly giving the Prefect orders about senators. Gaius recognised several; these men were on the plotters’ list to canvass as replacement emperors. They had said no. Despite that, Norbanus was being told to eliminate them.

‘Clodianus!’

The Prefect gesticulated for his officer to approach. It was the first time for years he had been up so close to his master. They were two feet apart: Domitian with his glorious purple robe stretched taut over the chunky Flavian paunch, Clodianus tall and strong in his red tunic, expression clear despite his nerves. Perhaps he imagined it, but that oddly curved lip of Domitian’s seemed more pronounced, the backward tilt of the head ever more peculiar.

For the soldier, there now began the most difficult conversation of his life. Domitian demanded a report on the secret committee. He wanted details. Who attended? How had they contributed? Which seemed untrustworthy? What signs had been observed that they aimed at his destruction? Names were put directly to the cornicularius. Domitian fired them off: names Clodianus knew, names he knew for certain were innocent, even names he had never heard of. The catalogue astonished him. Half the Senate and large numbers of imperial freedmen seemed to be under suspicion. Domitian had picked these out for himself as people who were against him, faces he was about to have arrested.

The cornicularius assumed a boot-faced, solid attitude, still trying to reconcile his duty with his inclinations. He was giving nothing important away, yet his act must be unconvincing. Norbanus shot him filthy looks and although Domitian apparently took it all in without resistance, Gaius felt queasy.

Quite suddenly, his interrogation ended.

The Emperor gave him a long, hostile, knowing stare. Domitian did not say this time, I know that man! Nor did Vinius Clodianus mention their past encounters. The cornicularius had failed his test.

There was no recognition that this was the soldier who had saved the priest and sympathised with Domitian on the Capitol all those years before, a Praetorian Guard with long years of steady service, the prisoner whose suffering in Dacia had so shocked his master. Anyone else built up trust through shared experience; for the Emperor, the past was irrelevant. With his flawed temperament, Domitian only lived for the suspicions of the moment.

Domitian was convinced the Guard had betrayed him. But Clodianus had been true so far. Once the Emperor discounted his whole career of loyal service, everything changed. He swore the oath and took the money. But he had remained his own man. Themison had diagnosed it: to be constantly under suspicion while innocent may exasperate his associates until they do turn against him. Those who love him will feel rejected…

He understood that look in Domitian’s eyes. He knew what all those men must have gone through, those the Emperor invited into cosy confabulations at the same time as turning against them. Now he stood in danger himself. A cornicularius, with access to the entire Praetorian budget, could easily be accused of mishandling funds, for example. He, Vinius Clodianus, was in line for some harsh accusation of misdemeanour; for disgrace, exile, even death. Untrue; unjust. But impossible to refute, even if opportunity was given — which would not happen.

‘I want a list.’

‘Of course.’ A commissariat man knew always to agree; in his own time he could ignore instructions. ‘ Domine. ’ He meekly said ‘Master’ — but he would not call Domitian ‘God’.

What kind of list? This was the nub of the problem. Brooding intently, Domitian would not specify. He thought anyone loyal ought to know what was needed; to force their response was a good trial of their honesty. He did not care what they told him; he made up his own mind anyway. Any list would do. Any names would answer. The list need not be complete, it need not be relevant or truthful, it just had to provide him with his next victims. Confirm his suspicions. Validate his fear.

After a curt dismissal, the unhappy cornicularius marched off. He felt the Emperor follow him with another baleful stare. Norbanus remained behind, probably so Domitian could order him to discipline and destroy Clodianus. One of the slaves who assembled within call slipped past. Domitian had asked for a note tablet. He would make his own list.

That stare said Vinius Clodianus would be on it.

Domitian believed that he would die on September the eighteenth, at the fifth hour.

The previous day, someone gave him a gift of apples; he ordered them to be served tomorrow, saying darkly, ‘If I am spared!’

‘He is like some miserable uncle that nobody wants to sit beside at Saturnalia!’ Lucilla complained to Gaius. As Gaius remarked, at least it gave the conspirators a diary date.

‘The last day to choose is when he expects it,’ Lucilla demurred. Gaius smiled quietly. He was abstracted, still burdened by that meeting with Domitian, anxious for himself, more anxious for Lucilla. ‘Oh Gaius, surely we must hope to catch him by surprise!’

‘If he anticipates an attack, he may accept it. “ This is the prophecy, your time has come, give up now. ” Then killing him becomes much easier.’

Gaius thought the inexperienced Stephanus would falter. Stephanus might look strong, but a palace freedman had no martial training. They had brought in a gladiator to instruct him in basic attack moves. Parthenius produced one of Domitian’s own professionals, who helped them in return for the promise of freedom and presumably a large cash payment. Gaius never knew the fighter’s name. He had no great faith in what the gladiator could achieve with Stephanus in just a few days of secret working out.

Stephanus had bandaged his forearm as if he had some injury. He wore an obvious sling, like a hypochondriac, walking about the palace that way until everyone had seen him. By the end of a week, the Guards grew bored with searching him for concealed weapons. That was when Stephanus hid a dagger under the bandages.

When Gaius confessed his fears that Domitian was composing written details of the plot, Lucilla decided to do something; she pretended she had to see the Empress.

Domitia Longina rarely asked for her these days, not since Flavia Domitilla was exiled; the Empress was probably afraid Lucilla would want her to beg Domitian to let his niece return. Lucilla would not waste her breath. As far as she knew, Domitia had never once tried to influence a political decision.