Her reasons for hating and fearing her uncle were obvious enough. Married to a Flavian cousin and the mother of seven children, she had long been a member of Domitian’s inner circle. After the death of the emperor’s son, and the subsequent failure of his wife to produce another heir, Domitian had placed two of Flavia’s young sons in the line of succession. Her future and that of her family had looked very bright.
Lucius recalled an ancient Etruscan proverb: “Sit too near the flame and your cloak will catch fire.” In one of his frequent fits of suspicion, Domitian had turned against Flavia. His pretext was that she and her husband had secretly converted to the religion of the Jews, or else had become Christians; it hardly mattered which, since both cults promoted atheism and a disrespect for the gods, which could not be tolerated within the imperial family. Were the charges true? Lucius had never asked Flavia, nor had she told him.
Whatever the truth, Flavia’s husband had been executed, and she and her children had been exiled to the island of Pandateria, off the western coast of Italy. Eventually, Domitian had allowed Flavia to return to Roma – indeed, had compelled her to do so – while her children remained on the island to ensure their mother’s loyalty.
Flavia was bitter and desperate. She was motivated by revenge, but also by the desire to see her progeny survive. Every day Domitian lived, she and her children were in danger. A botched attempt to kill him would certainly mean death for them all. Even a successful assassination might lead to their destruction, but it might also free them from fear and allow them to be reunited.
Looking at her across the flames, Lucius made up his mind to trust her.
“You know why I’m here,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Will you help us?”
He thought of Cornelia. He thought of Epaphroditus. He also thought of Apollonius, but in the present circumstance he could find no inspiration in the precepts of the Teacher. Lucius himself was not truly a philosopher, only a sincere but oft-thwarted seeker. Nor was he a man of action – but he might yet become one. “Yes. I’ll help you. But what can I do?”
She flashed a smile of triumph. It marred her beauty. He suddenly saw her as the niece of her uncle, more like him than not – rapacious, unstoppable, murderous. She had made no mention of the danger he would surely face. Probably she did not care whether Lucius survived or not; he was simply a tool to be used. Her questionable motives, the likelihood that he would be killed, the risk of failure – none of these mattered to Lucius. He was determined to cast his lot with hers.
“Uncle will send for you very soon,” she said. “Today, perhaps. Perhaps within the hour.”
His heart sank. “By all the gods, what have I done to attract his attention this time?”
“It’s not what you’ve done, but who you are. You’ll understand when he tells you. He will ask a favor of you.”
“What favour?”
She shook her head. “It’s better if you know as little as possible. Agree to help him. Do as he asks. Observe and listen. Through you, an opportunity may arise that will lead us to success.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to, not yet. Just go to him when he summons you.”
“That’s all you can tell me?”
“One more thing. Within the House of the Flavians, there is one person whom you can trust absolutely. If he should tell you to say or do something, do as he says. I speak of an imperial steward named Stephanus. He’s a brave man, and not squeamish. When the moment finally comes, he’s the man we’re all counting on.”
Hilarion appeared in the doorway, looking shaken. “Forgive me for interrupting-”
“What is it, Hilarion?”
“There’s a visitor in the vestibule. A courtier from the palace. He says he’s come to take you there. Praetorians came with him. They’re waiting for him in the street.”
“Don’t look so glum, Hilarion. It’s only when the Praetorians come inside the house that we should worry. This visit was not unexpected.” Lucius looked at Flavia and raised an eyebrow.
“I should conceal myself,” she said.
Lucius nodded to Hilarion, who stepped to one of the bookcases that appeared to be built into the wall, took hold of a scroll that was not a scroll but a lever, and pulled it. The bookcase opened like a door. Hilarion ushered Flavia into the hidden compartment, then shut the bookcase behind her. Lucius sighed. In such a world, it was a foolish man who did not have at least one concealed room in his house.
For his visit to the palace, he dressed in his finest toga. The rain had abated for a while. A shaft of bright sunlight, unseen for days, broke through the clouds and caused the wet paving stones and puddles to glisten.
He was conducted to a part of the palace he had never seen before. The narrowness of the passages, the small size of the rooms, and the less formal demeanour of the courtiers seemed to indicate that this was a more private, less public area of the imperial complex. At various points he was searched for weapons, not once but three times. At last, after waiting alone for an hour in a small chamber off a small garden, he was joined by Catullus.
“Greetings, Pinarius,” said Catullus, in a flat tone of voice that acknowledged nothing of the history between them.
“Greetings, Catullus.” Lucius strove to keep his voice steady, though the very sight of the man made his heart beat faster. His palms began to sweat, so profusely that he had to wipe them on his toga. Fortunately, the blind courtier could not see his distress.
“For a man who professes to have no interest in public affairs, your visits to these premises are surprisingly frequent,” remarked Catullus. He smiled. Perhaps he was making a joke to set Lucius at ease. Or was he toying with him?
“I came because I was summoned. What is it you want from me?”
Catullus began to pace. He knew the room well. Without hesitation, and apparently without thinking, he could pace from end to end, turning just before he reached a wall.
“What I’m about to tell you, you must never reveal to anyone. Do you understand, Pinarius?”
“Yes.”
“On penalty of death.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? In the past, Caesar has been extraordinarily merciful to you; unduly so, in my opinion. But if you should ever reveal what I’m about to tell you, I shall see to it myself that you’re put to death.”
“You make yourself clear, Catullus.”
“Good. Foul weather we’ve been having, don’t you think?”
“Surely you didn’t summon me here to discuss the weather.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Catullus ceased pacing. “You are aware that there have been a great many lightning strikes in the city during recent months?”
“I’m aware of this, yes.”
“Regarding these numerous lightning strikes, Caesar is not happy. To be candid, Caesar is in some distress.”
“Every man fears lightning.”
“It’s not the lightning itself that Caesar fears, but what it may portend. I will explain. Many years ago, when Caesar was only a boy, an astrologer predicted the day of his death – indeed, the very hour. The astrologer also predicted the manner of Caesar’s death: by a blade. At the time, the date foretold must have seemed very distant. But time passes. The day is swiftly approaching. And for a boy, ‘death by blade’ meant death in battle, as a brave warrior; but now when he imagines death by a blade, Caesar thinks of treachery and assassination.”
“Does Caesar believe this prediction made so long ago?”
“Whether he takes it seriously or not, a man never forgets such a prediction. Once, Caesar’s father made a joke of it. The Divine Vespasian was dining with his two sons; the young Domitian was suspicious of a mushroom he had been served and refused to eat it. The Divine Vespasian laughed. ‘Even if that mushroom is of a poisonous variety, you must be immune to it, my son, for we know the day of your death is a long way off, and it isn’t mushrooms that will do you in!’”