‘Do you want a bunk-up — half price to you?’
Lucilla was exasperated by the self-centred toyboy, who she knew had actually cut off his hair and sent locks to his hometown of Pergamum in a gold box; he had begged a poet to write a celebratory lyric about it, as if he were a person of account.
‘Wobble yourself, Earinus. I like a lover with balls.’
Just at that moment she saw Gaius Vinius.
Vinius, who had a true love of music, had emerged from the theatre. Off duty and unarmed, he came at a fast clip up a short flight of marble-veneered steps to where Lucilla and her companions were noisily clustered on the flat terrace. He must have left the concert early, apparently overcome by tristesse. Lucilla thought she even saw him wipe away a tear.
She knew he had spotted her. He obviously heard the conversation. His expression of contempt was searing. They did not speak. Vinius disappeared. Lucilla felt cheap — then annoyed, because what she did and who she knew were her own affair, whatever the Praetorian thought.
What he thought suddenly mattered to her. That made her more angry.
When Domitian emerged and his party flocked after him out of the theatre, Lucilla severed herself from the group she had been with. Her mood was sour, not least because she had been drinking wine after little to eat. Wine had a crazy attraction that night, so she was carrying a flagon as she walked off by herself. She went just fast enough to deter anyone from trying to speak to her.
There was a long promenade, sheltered by a high hillside wall, which led away from the theatre. On her left, a line of narrow flower beds with low walls carrying water channels was graced at intervals with grottos, statues and fountains. More formal planting with topiary lay to her right. Everywhere seemed to be full of entwined couples and people laughing, with distant screams that were impossible to interpret: silliness, feigned protest, or even real cries for help, though nobody took any notice. Part way along this terrace a tunnel under the hillside had steps leading down, then a passage wide enough for four abreast that went to the upper terrace and living quarters. Her original thought had been to head back to her room that way. Furious, wretched and befuddled, Lucilla missed the entrance.
Someone, a man, started following her.
After a lurch of panic she recognised that level tread. Surreptitiously, she confirmed it was Vinius. Lucilla flounced off. His slow footfall continued.
At the farthermost end of the promenade, where hardly anyone else had wandered, she reached a small garden room enclosed by high walls and foliage, with a petal-shaped pool decorated with ornamental shrubs. Lucilla stopped and waited, with a pitter-patter of anticipation, for Vinius to catch up.
He was not happy with her. ‘What in Hades are you doing?’
‘Walking.’
‘Crap. For what reason are you tripping around in a dream by yourself, carrying a wine flagon?’
‘I want to get away from people.’
‘By inviting the wrong attention? These gardens are my bored colleagues’ domain. They judge women on a sliding scale — that’s from slag through slut, via filthy tambourine dancer, and ending up only with eminently fuckable — ’
‘None of them came near me.’
‘Only because I gave them all the evil eye.’
Vinius was right. A number of the men sauntering on the terrace were Praetorians, enjoying their regular evening haunt. It was an empty kind of recreation and they might well be looking for trouble. A woman could tell herself the Guards didn’t frighten her; any woman who genuinely thought that was stupid. Yet here Lucilla was, a long way from other people, and alone with one of them. ‘I don’t need your protection.’
‘You need a good hiding. You’ve gone wild here. For some dumb, ethical reason I feel called to intervene.’
Lucilla took off again, but this time with Vinius alongside. Now that they had spoken he seemed to calm down. They strode along together as if simply admiring the topiary until they reached the great viewing area, a balcony that gave a wonderful panorama with views of Rome and the sea. They fetched up by its balustrade, which bore massive plant pots, its rough stone still warm from heat beating on it all day.
To cover their awkwardness, Lucilla began asking questions. ‘I saw you come out of the music.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you go to hear concerts by yourself?’
‘I like concerts.’
‘It seemed to have upset you.’
‘I was moved. That doesn’t have to be a bad thing.’
‘I don’t think of you as emotional.’
‘Then you don’t know me.’
‘No.’ Lucilla’s voice was drab, but firm. ‘And maybe you don’t know me either. You put yourself in judgement on me tonight, unfairly.’
‘Those people are trash.’ It was a harsh denunciation, a soldier’s. ‘It’s not only tonight. I’ve watched you when you didn’t know. I’ve seen you among real lowlifes here. Wallowing with the squeaky-boys. You keep atrocious company.’
‘Earinus is harmless.’
‘No; he’s vile!’
Blinking back tears, Lucilla blundered away from him, alone this time, and plunged down to a flight of steps which led into a huge underground hall like a grandiose passageway that was called the cryptoporticus. At the end where she entered, Domitian had built a great platform from which he could survey the length of the grandiose gallery. Sometimes he summoned the Senate there and glowered down at them from his vantage point.
There were few people about because most preferred to be outside, but some small groups were in the giant vaulted passage, talking quietly. To avoid unwelcome overtures, Lucilla had to act as if she was going to meet someone. She teetered down the wide, steep stairs, realising she was more tipsy than she liked. She reached the flat, a long gallery that must be over three hundred yards long. This part had small high windows, designed to flood the passage with sunlight that would reflect off the highly polished marble walls and provide almost theatrical illumination for the Emperor on his podium. With few oil lamps, the place was deeply gloomy after dark.
People stared at her. Becoming nervous, she found an exit.
A new broad terrace opened out of doors, with the cryptoporticus forming its back wall. More peaceful parterres, with neatly trimmed hedges and topiary, extended to far vistas. Statues climbed out of tangles of roses in graceful allees. Enormous trees of unimaginable antiquity reached for the sky.
She turned right and marched quickly to the end of the gardens, where a statue made a feature among a semi-circle of stone benches, with curtains of tall, trimmed cypress trees behind. She slumped on one of the benches.
Feet crunching on the path announced that Vinius was joining her again; she was not entirely surprised. He sat down a couple of yards from her, watching her disapprovingly although the mood between them seemed less hostile now.
‘You’re a strange girl.’ He said it with a half-admiring, half-troubled tone. ‘Why don’t you find yourself a boyfriend to keep you out of mischief, or get married nicely?’
‘Because I’ve had a look at what’s available.’
She heard Vinius laughing. ‘Fair enough!’
There was a silence, after which he shuffled along towards her, holding out his hand for her wine flagon. Lucilla gave up custody. He gulped, let out a disparaging noise; it was white, girlie wine, too acid. Nonetheless he drank greedily. When he stopped he offered the flagon back, but she had had sufficient earlier. Vinius sat, with his head flung back, looking up at the early stars.
‘So you approve of marriage,’ Lucilla challenged. ‘Well, I hear you’ve done it enough times.’
‘Marriage has its uses.’
‘Did you ever have children?’
‘One.’
‘Boy or girl?’ There was such a long pause, Lucilla rounded on him: ‘Juno, you are appalling; you don’t even remember!’
‘I was thinking about my daughter,’ Vinius responded coldly. Vinia Arruntina. A grand name for such a tiny tot. She would have been, what — eight? nine? now. Her father’s little girl; his lost princess; forever his baby…