So did Gaius Vinius.
Unlike Titus, who had been drilled at court by Nero’s bullish Praetorian Prefect, Burrus, Domitian probably never did much basic training. Becoming the son of an emperor at eighteen had exempted him from the course of honour, the normal series of military and admin posts that conditioned young men of the upper classes. He was at one time called Prince of Youth, which was meaningless. His honours had been all concerned with priesthoods and poetry. He had a reputation for squeamishness and had even discussed abolishing animal sacrifice in religious ceremonial. Though officially a general, the triumphant Germanicus had spilt no blood personally while they were campaigning.
Paris — effete, bejewelled, gorgeously clad, his features cosmetically emphasised — backed against a house wall. It was a sensible move, had this been a mugger after his purse.
Domitian rushed him. To a soldier, it was a disaster. The way the sword point was wavering, Vinius could tell that Domitian would make a mess of the kill. He would probably be hurt himself. Close by, Gracilis spat an obscenity. But Vinius was still nearest.
Nothing for it.
Vinius stepped up behind the Emperor. He felt like a trainer with a raw recruit. He dropped his own fist over the Emperor’s hand on the sword pommel and guided Domitian’s aim. He grasped Domitian’s left shoulder, leant against his back for a firm stance, then shoved the sword for him with the right strength. Paris would have felt as if he had been punched hard in the ribs, but he would not have felt it long. He died there as Vinius wrenched out the blade, with a twist to make sure. Vinius let go of the Emperor; he could feel Domitian shaking. He took a step back.
Gracilis bumped past him. Retrieving the sword from their master, the centurion wiped off most of the blood on the dead actor’s pretty tunic. Knowing him, Vinius believed he was disgusted by this fiasco. ‘Help the Emperor into his litter, make it quick. Someone, fetch the Urbans to control the mob and clear this corpse away…’ Respectfully he spoke to Domitian, like a mother rescuing a child: ‘Well done, sir, but that’s enough excitement. Let’s get you home, shall we?’
As the Emperor clambered back into his litter, a crowd collected, too stupid to know what was good for them. Shutters were opening overhead, women calling out to their neighbours. Decius Gracilis spoke urgently in a lower voice: ‘Vinius! Go to the camp. Go straight there. Don’t speak to anyone. Clean up, clean your weapon, leave it with my batman. Is there somewhere you can hide up? Get there and stay there, until we can assess the fallout. Scramble!’
Not your best move, soldier.
I get it.
A Roman whose wife committed adultery in his home had the right to kill her lover on the spot. But Domitian had slain Paris in cold blood. He had not caught him in the act, nor discovered him in his house. Any good defence lawyer would accuse Domitian of forethought, deliberately seeking Paris out, well exceeding his traditional rights.
Being realistic, if the Emperor owned this openly, he would get away with it. Even so, technically, killing Paris was unlawful. If Domitian was accused and wanted to distance himself, Gaius Vinius might be charged with the murder. It would be unfair, but Roman law could be harsh.
Vinius made himself scarce.
In markets and food shops in adjacent neighbourhoods, flies noticed a new scent in the air, calling to them. Musca’s descendants responded. Paris was still warm on the cobbles as they rose in slow circles and unhurriedly approached to lay eggs in the carrion.
10
Safety.
The apartment. Four quiet rooms. Dim light. Life went on here on a decent domestic basis, orderly, ordinary, private. Someone was trying out a floor rug in the corridor. Not a success. It was tripping up clients and the cleaning slave loathed it; the experiment would be discontinued.
All the internal doors were closed. Street noises were muffled: shouts; harness bells; chickens in cages; children’s squeals. Indoors, silence.
An island of serenity in a troubled world. Few people knew his link to this place. Nobody knew he was here.
Having the apartment was starting to matter.
Flavia Lucilla opened a door suddenly and bounced from her workroom, her mouth full of hairpins. Annoyed, she found the soldier standing just indoors, key still in his hand. ‘Vinius!’ Hairpins scattered.
Once again his unexpected arrival had startled her. He, too, wished she had not been here. Without a word he strode to his room, closing the double doors. He stood there, leaning back against the wood, desperate, shaken by today’s experience.
Lucilla knocked briskly, trying to push open the doors. A furious Vinius faced her, snarling: ‘We need some rules around here! Doors open: permit to treat. Doors shut: bloody well keep out!’
She returned to her client. The woman sensed a desire to be rid of her. She hung on, asking questions about maintenance of her new hairstyle, wondering about lotions, describing dull antics of grandchildren.
Once freed, Lucilla prowled about, making it obvious she was now alone, but no sound came from the soldier.
Hours later, she was finishing in the kitchen when she heard Vinius emerge quietly and use the facilities. He came in. Though a little more benign after her supper, Lucilla cold-shouldered him. He barely seemed to notice. A married man, he was used to the silent treatment.
He stared at his shelf as if he had never seen the things that now stood there. She had presumed he chose them: two sets of ceramic redware bowls in three sizes, small, medium, generous; knives and spoons wrapped in a dinner napkin; a small frying pan with a folding handle; another flat pan with two handles; a set of four beakers; two pottery lamps (with designs of ducks, nothing pornographic); and a flagon of lamp oil. All were new. All had arrived the same day as the furniture she had seen in one of his rooms: a bed-frame with a neat pile of folded blanket, sheet and pillow; a stool beside the bed; a chest. The chest was locked; she had tested it shamelessly, then scurried from the room as if she feared Vinius had an invisible gryphon watching his belongings.
Conscious he needed rehydration, Vinius selected a beaker. In a world of his own, and with his one-eyed focussing trouble, when he turned on the bronze tap he partly missed the water flow. Splashes went everywhere; he stood transfixed.
Lucilla dropped one hand on his wrist to steady the beaker. She turned off the tap. Vinius greedily swallowed down the half cup.
Lucilla had recognised there was some real crisis. She touched his arm again, using the back of her hand so it was as neutral as the touch of a medical orderly. ‘You’re freezing cold! Are you ill?’
He stared dully. ‘Shock… I had a shock.’
Amazed, she saw his teeth chatter briefly. She took control; she steered the man to her workroom, where she sat him in one of the armchairs. She fetched the blanket from his room, shook it open and draped it over him, saying she would make him a hot drink. Vinius allowing her to take charge was sufficiently uncharacteristic to cause concern.
It took time to heat anything on the small cooking fire. While he was alone, Vinius roused himself a little, looking around. He stood up, clutching the blanket, and went to the open door which led onto a veranda; it ran around four sides of an internal courtyard but had been sectioned off with trellis outside their apartment, providing a small place to sit out, dappled with sunlight on this long summer evening. He heard voices below, must be old man Cretticus, talking to a slave.
Back indoors, Vinius deduced much about Flavia Lucilla’s life. Her situation had changed from when he first met her, scratching an existence, with the blowsy mother he had suspected was almost a prostitute, Lucilla then a girl who seemed only one step from the same fate. Clearly she had talent. Apart from what he had heard about her from Melissus, he could tell from this workroom. Two exuberantly curly female headpieces sat on a shelf, one of them half-finished. She had assembled kit, all organised with systematic neatness on shelves or in trays in a way that appealed to a soldier. The Empire permitted social advancement, but that was commonest among men who could rise from slave to free citizen through business, then with enough application and patronage reach the equestrian rank and even senator. Flavia Lucilla was a rare woman to seize on the possibilities. Vinius was not surprised, but impressed by her swift progress.