Master and God (12 page)

Vinius offered: ‘Talking of executions, head of his hit-list was Flavius Sabinus.’

‘Cousin?’

‘Top cousin. He out-ranked Domitian at a family dinner table.’

‘Tricky situation?’

Vinius snorted. ‘For Sabinus.’

As the elder son of Vespasian’s elder brother, this Sabinus had been the most senior member of the Flavian clan. Initially, his position looked secure. He was appointed consul in Domitian’s first year, continuing the Flavian tradition of surrounding themselves with relatives. But Sabinus had already offended Domitian by having his household retainers dressed in white, which was imperial livery; Domitian had darkly implied the world was not big enough for both of them.

‘So when his consulship ended, Sabinus was executed.’

‘The heir presumptive? Just like that?’

Vinius croaked, ‘It didn’t exactly help him look harmless when a herald at the Games accidentally announced Sabinus as not
consul
but
emperor
.’

‘In Domitian’s presence?’ Gracilis winced.

‘Let’s be realistic. The herald probably got a reward for giving him a reason to lop the cousin.’

Gracilis pursed his lips. ‘Do doctors hand out diarrhoea pills in the palace?’

‘Are the rest shit scared? Too right.’ Vinius smiled, then continued in a neutral voice, ‘I haven’t heard anyone else say this, but I think it was significant that the Emperor had just lost his young son. Maybe his cousin openly presumed too much after the boy’s death. The other problem was – and you may think, still is – Sabinus was married to Titus’ daughter, Julia.’

‘She a threat?’

‘No signs so far, but she could theoretically become a figurehead for devotees of Titus.’

‘Even if she’s loyal?’ Gracilis grimly added Julia to his list of Praetorian concerns.

‘Julia must be ten years younger than the Emperor,’ said Vinius. ‘But I believe they were brought up together. Vespasian had offered her in marriage to Domitian for dynastic reasons, but Julia was a child and he was in love with Domitia Longina. Julia’s later marriage to Sabinus was equally political.’ Vinius sounded cynical, though it was not obvious whether he disapproved of how noblewomen were shunted into bed with their cousins or if he had come to despise marriage in general.

‘They had children?’

‘Luckily for the children, no. “
Oh precious nephew, sweet innocent niece, come and sit on Uncle’s knee – let Rome’s great leader wrap his friendly hands around your little rival throats . . .
”’

Gracilis sent Vinius a reproving look, but pressed on. ‘What’s he like with the Senate?’

‘Ignores them as much as possible.’

‘Vespasian and Titus at least paid lip service.’

‘Domitian doesn’t bother.’

‘Advisers? Any powers behind the throne that we need to watch?’

Vinius took a deep swallow of his wine as a punctuation mark. His tone was dry. ‘There is an ad hoc council of
amici,
Caesar’s Friends.’

Gracilis picked up on his scepticism. ‘How does that work?’

‘About twenty advisers. He summons them periodically to watch him announce decisions. Every man is bloody scared stiff. They tremble and burble admiringly. So much for the venerated Roman system,’ said Vinius. ‘Surely the whole point is for a man’s private circle to tell him what nobody else dares say?’

Gracilis pulled a face. ‘So who is his confidante? The Empress?’ A powerful empress could be a nightmare for imperial bodyguards.

Domitia’s role seemed merely ceremonial, her influence of no concern. Vinius dismissed the suggestion.

They next discussed how Domitian treated the imperial bureaucracy, those influential freedmen running the palace with whom the Guards had to liaise. ‘He kept the most loyal of his father’s private associates, but the palace staff – whom you could say really wield administrative power – were comprehensively weeded.’ Vinius gave examples: ‘He started with Classicus, who had been close to Titus. Classicus was in charge of Titus’ personal finances plus, as chamberlain, he spent a lot of time in the Emperor’s presence, and controlled access. He was swiftly chopped. Also pensioned off was Tiberius Julius, who ran the public funds – there were rumours of embezzlement, possibly trumped up to get rid of him – along with anyone else who seemed too significant in the previous administration, or whose face simply didn’t fit.’

‘Ditching staff-in-post is a good rule,’ said Gracilis approvingly. ‘Shake them up. Put in your own. Make them grateful.’
That’s why I’m looking at you, Gaius Vinius . . .

‘To his credit, he takes care with appointments. Demotion or promotion, he vets every one. If scribes don’t meet his standards, the duds don’t linger. And we are talking about a huge complement, Gracilis. There are scores of staff in the secretariats.’ They both grimaced. ‘He’s into everything as well. The bureaucrats hate his interference – though it’s a dilemma because this could be a good time for them if they want to be associated with a big programme of work. Titus left a full Treasury and if Domitian has inherited their father’s way with making money, funds won’t be a problem. But he demands details; he won’t let the secretaries move on anything until he gives personal approval.’

‘So what’s your overall assessment?’

Vinius had thoroughly warmed up and had answers ready: ‘He wants to be the new Augustus. People are calling him the new Nero, but they can’t see further than his youth and his love for the arts.’

‘We have to attend a lot of recitals?’

‘Afraid so! But he also loves gladiators.’

‘And long term? Is he ambitious?’

‘As Hades.’

‘I like it!’ Ambitious emperors were good news for troops. ‘So he’s thirty,’ murmured Gracilis. ‘Are we going a long way with him?’

‘Well, bodily, he does not impress –’ Vinius, a fit man in a physical profession, was frank. ‘Mentally, I’d say he packs power. No question about his intelligence – or his determination. He has the will, he should make his mark. He’s rebuilding the city, revamping the currency, re-establishing old-fashioned morals . . .’

‘Jupiter! What does that mean?’

‘As Pontifex Maximus he cleaned up the Vestal Virgins—’

‘
Cleaned them up?
The most revered women in Rome? What did they do? Let the sacred flame go out once too often?’

‘All very sad,’ murmured Vinius, with a trace of disrespect. ‘Brought to trial for taking lovers. Varronilla, and the Oculata sisters . . .’

‘Half the establishment! Found guilty?’

‘Their affairs were blatant. But to demonstrate his mercy, our leader stopped short of the traditional burial alive. They were allowed to choose how they died.’

‘A delicate touch!’

‘Feather light. Other than that, reforming morals means restating the Augustan marriage laws. Everyone should have at least three children, preferably by fathers who can be identified; widows have to remarry smartish; and the spoilsport has outlawed adultery.’ Cautious again, Vinius dropped his voice: ‘No doubt with the usual proviso that everyone else has to give up their private fun, but not the Emperor.’

‘So what’s
his
private fun?’ Past Caesars who indulged themselves had had disgusting habits. Gracilis acquired the anxious look of a man with no sexual history himself, fearing the worst.

‘Founding new cultural festivals,’ replied the soldier gravely. ‘Our leader is a married man, who is famously infatuated with his wife – a general’s daughter, who may even be faithful to him – well, if Domitia Longina has any sense she’ll bloody well make sure she is.’

Only when the centurion thought this subject safely disposed of did Gaius Vinius revive it mischievously, saying that nonetheless Domitian’s anterooms were packed with throngs of pretty boy eunuchs, scantily-clad imperial playthings who called themselves cup-bearers.

Decius Gracilis understood this was a tease. He swallowed his prudery. ‘Convenient. If the catamites are half naked, we don’t have to search them for concealed weapons.’

‘No, we can see straightaway whether the buggers are carrying . . . Sorry, sir; “buggers” was ill-chosen, in context.’

They both cleared their throats.

By this point, Decius Gracilis felt the conversation showed the right meeting of minds. Without more ado, he made the offer of becoming his beneficarius.

Encouraged by drink, Gaius Vinius was still amused by a mental picture of the upright centurion forced to overcome his natural distaste and frisk oriental eunuchs . . . He accepted straightaway.

T
he Insula of the Muses on Plum Street stood in the Sixth Region, the Alta Semita or High Lanes. This insignificant byway ran down the western slope of the Quirinal Hill and descended to the Vicus Longus. To the north were the extensive Gardens of Sallust and across the dip was the Viminal ridge. In this district, which had been favoured by the Flavians in their shabby days, were other substantial houses owned by senators nobody had ever heard of, families clinging on by their supposedly noble fingertips to uncertain status and rusty prestige. As the Senate mouldered under Domitian, they started losing their grip.

Bounded by narrow roads on all sides, the small block contained one of those houses. It was owned by the Crettici, who still lived there, though their fortunes were declining. The lack of heirs meant failure to bring in money through adept marriages, the elderly patriarch was now frail, and on good advice they were seeking to exploit their property. Ground floor rooms that faced onto streets were already leased out as shops or offices. Faded tenants in despised professions occupied single rooms on the top two storeys: honest accountants, engineers with no grasp of physics, half-blind bead threaders, a retired armed robber with quiet habits . . . Adaptations had recently begun on the first floor, carving up family accommodation in order to make bijou apartments, where a good class of person might be lured, guaranteed not to affront the owners, since the Crettici were hanging on in their original suites around the interior courtyard.

They still wanted to believe the house was their own, though in truth many other people had possession. A takeaway food and wine bar on one corner started slowly but as it became popular with passing workers, there were noisy periods. A religious statuette boutique attracted obsessed old widows who shouted strange abuse at harmless passers-by. The stationer served odd bods, in the form of would-be writers. They were believed responsible for a rash of subversive and not very funny graffiti. A stray dog solved that by biting a culprit.

Facing onto Plum Street were now a fringe-and-tassel shop (struggling) and a booth where a slightly peculiar man sold multi-bladed pocket-knives to soldiers and shy adolescent boys buying birthday presents for their fathers (a galloping trade). Between them, newly built steep stone steps disappeared under a tall arch, leading up to a discreet apartment. This was ‘strikingly renovated, with fine art frescos and high-end fittings’; Melissus, business manager for the Crettici, was attempting to sell a long-term lease to ‘discerning clients’ (anyone daft enough to believe his patter). A discreetly veiled imperial freedwoman seemed a good prospect, until she explained, ‘People who can afford exquisite frescos are looking for more space than this, while people who only want four rooms won’t pay your price.’

‘What about the decor?’

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘You dislike it?’

‘I cannot afford it.’

‘You need to make up your mind quickly,’ oozed Melissus, deaf to obscenities like ‘cannot afford’. ‘Somebody else is interested.’

You’re bluffing.

Right.

You invented him?

He can’t afford it either.

A few weeks went by. There was no other interest. This was mainly because the pocket-knife vendor, who had fallen out with Melissus, was telling enquirers the place had been taken off the market. Melissus had not paid him attention, being concerned only to live the classic life of an owner’s agent: eating pies in his little office, conversing with associates in the Roman Forum, or sleeping with one of his mistresses. Neither was young any more; he was getting his action before they both packed him in.

Things became pressing. The Crettici were desperate to recoup their expenditure on the misconceived revamp. Their contractors wanted payment. Melissus had promised he would install tenants by the first of July, the traditional start of annual rents in expensive properties. Tenants had to pay upfront. It was attractive for owners, though a burden for tenants.

Melissus concocted a compromise. He told both potential clients that he was willing to split the apartment. It was laid out with two rooms each side of a central corridor. They could occupy half each. A lightweight partition could be put up as a divider. Melissus presumed these cheapskates would not object to shared facilities. Instead, he talked up how rare it was to have water, a clanking pipe linked to the supply the Crettici paid for from the nearest aqueduct: this was official, so no danger of being fined for illegal access. Melissus went into ecstasies over the tap in a cubby-hole that served as a kitchenette where a clever run-off then sluiced out a tiny lavatory, giving personal privacy as well as immediate convenience . . .

This apartment was indeed elegant, by Roman standards. The Crettici had had no idea how to cut corners for their own commercial benefit.

The freedwoman learned that her co-lessee would be a serving soldier. She pouted.

‘Not to worry,’ Melissus assured her. ‘The Emperor is taking the troops abroad, Germany, Gaul, some horrible place – by the way, I never told you that; it’s a state secret.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Demurely she implied she had better contacts than his.

‘Oh! The man’s brother is one of the builders, Fortunatus; you may have seen him working here – “Those steps will last a hundred years . . . That’s a lovely bit of travertine!” He put his brother onto this, as an investment opportunity. The fellow just got married. He wants to salt away some capital, a secret from the wife. He’s looking for a business partner, if you’re interested.’

‘How does that work? To earn off the place he must intend to install tenants of his own?’ Clearly, like so many in Rome, the soldier intended to sublet at a profit. Some buildings had so many tiers of renters, no one could work out who owned the head lease.