The centurion Gracilis was last glimpsed by his beneficarius taking out opponents to the last, still showing his exasperation at the sheer bloody stupidity of this ill-planned operation imposed on good soldiers by an impetuous leader. Decius Gracilis, who would obey orders even when they were suicidal, died in that field of gore. Vinius saw him go down, bucking in agony yet wielding his sword valiantly even as life left him. His own heart burst with grief as he himself went on fighting — because that was what they were there for and there was no escape now — until a Dacian came up on his blind side. His helmet barely withstood the mighty blow that finished him, adrenalin carried him forwards momentarily, but he felt his sight blur and his legs give way. Vinius was finished. He knew it as, bitterly struggling against the darkness, he dropped to his knees then fell headlong among the dead and dying, helplessly submerged in carnage.
16
Certain moments would never be the same again. A garden at dusk in late summer would always remind Lucilla of her tryst with Vinius, and now mid-mornings when street-life was going on outside the shutters would sometimes catch her out too, making her weep. That was the time when Paulina had come to tell her what had happened. Instead of her usual cheery appearance, carrying little Titus, with the two girls scampering ahead and squealing for their aunt, Paulina was alone and solemn. She and Lucilla sat down together with hot beakers of flavoured borage tea, and then Paulina broke the news.
Reports of the tragic rout at Tapae had reached Rome. Felix and Fortunatus had gone to the Praetorian Camp, pleading for word of their younger brother. They learned that when Decebalus chased the remnants of Fuscus’ troops back through the mountains, so few soldiers scrambled back to the Danube that the cormorants on the riverbank scarcely bothered to lift off at their coming. None of the Praetorian contingent made it back. Their battle standard had been captured, which told its own story.
The Guards at the Camp had been sympathetic, until the brothers’ persistence became a menace; then the Guards’ own dismay at the loss of colleagues made them rougher. They shouted at Felix and Fortunatus to give up. There was no point repeatedly beseeching answers. Gaps in the Praetorian cohorts were to be filled immediately; any Guard who had stayed in Moesia with Fuscus was presumed missing in action. Fuscus, the Prefect, was definitely dead. A great many good men had died with him. Decius Gracilis and his century had been wiped out. The beneficarius was lost with his centurion. Felix and Fortunatus must stop causing trouble and accept it. Gaius Vinius was dead.
Dead. He was dead.
‘We all thought,’ said Paulina, with delicacy, ‘Gaius had a soft spot for you, Lucilla.’ Silence. ‘He never said anything?’
‘No.’
Paulina was not easily deflected. ‘Did you know that he divorced his wife? Just before he went away… She was very surprised. We all were.’
‘I am too,’ replied Lucilla honestly.
Not half as surprised as when the Praetorians supplied Felix and Fortunatus with their brother’s will. Gaius had made them his heirs and executors, not unexpectedly. He left them everything, with one surprising exception. A bequest ‘to Flavia Lucilla, well-deserving of me’ gave her all the contents of his rooms at Plum Street. ‘Well-deserving’ was a phrase used on tombstones for a spouse or lover, though presumably he intended simply to deter legal quibbles. Felix and Fortunatus added Gaius to their father’s memorial tablet near the Camp, but Lucilla was not invited to appear on it.
Everyone found it convenient to make out that Lucilla’s odd inheritance was just a few sticks of furniture and old keepsakes.
The furniture was better than her own, and Lucilla would take care of it for his sake. The keepsakes turned up when she unlocked the great chest in his bedroom. She made sure she was alone when she explored it.
Inside were his birth certificate and proof of Roman citizenship; army papers; two phalerae, which were his medals for army service in Britain and for saving a priest’s life in the vigiles. A flat gilded box that she remembered him bringing contained the gold oak wreath he won in action when he was a young soldier. She visualised him carrying that box into the apartment, clamped under one arm as if nothing special; he never said what it was.
Some items were everyday: a draughtsboard with two sets of glass counters, a toy ceramic chariot Gaius must have had in his childhood, favourite belts and a scabbard, the bronze multiple tool she remembered him buying, with its ingenious fold-up spoon, fork, cutting blade, toothpick, spatula and spike.
There was an amulet on a very short string, such as an infant might wear; his daughter’s? Lucilla lifted out personal treasures carefully, guessing what each possession might have meant.
Wrapped in a piece of soft cloth was a small collection of jewellery. She did ask his brothers about that; they were vague, but Paulina consulted an aunt who said the simple rings, silver bangle, gold chains and various earrings had belonged to Clodia, his mother. His father had called him after his mother, Lucilla learned. The formal documents and citations gave his full title. Gaius Vinius Clodianus: that had been his name.
What Lucilla never told the others was that the chest he left her contained a large amount of money.
The soldier’s savings took the form of aurei — each worth twenty-five denarii or a hundred sesterces — those big gold coins that people rarely used but hoarded. Perhaps it was true that when Domitian took the throne he had awarded soldiers a bonus of twenty thousand sesterces, the huge sum first given by the Emperor Claudius. Lucilla never actually counted, but the quantity took her breath away. Knowing this gift was intentional, yet hardly daring to touch it, she thought very carefully about how to use the cash. In the end when their rent fell due she paid Vinius’ regular share out of his money. That way, she could keep the apartment as he must have intended. Years were to pass while Lucilla continued to pay rent as if for Gaius.
She used his second room as her evening refuge, altering it to suit her, but kept his bedroom just as he had left it. She even left an old cloak of his on a door peg, but she brought out the toy chariot and placed it on the stool beside the bed. Nobody else went in there. She cleaned, tidied, occasionally lay on his neat bed, thinking. She never felt able to wear most of the jewellery, apart from one set of earrings with pearl drops which she chose and wore in the Praetorian’s memory.
In the months after the news came, she discovered unexpected things about him. First, in the apartment itself, she noticed a wall niche in the corridor. It must always have existed. Before he left, Vinius had placed there two small bronze statues, the ‘Lares and Penates’ who traditionally guarded the fortunes of a Roman home: he had left Lucilla with her own household gods. His gods too, perhaps. Had he taken them when he divorced Verania? The bronze had no patina; the little statues looked new.
Lying on the ledge where flowers and offerings could be placed, he had left his front door key — One for you; one for me. No duplicates. Agreed?
People continually talked about him. Paulina reminisced about his youth. ‘He was so good-looking before that happened with his eye. Lovely hair, and such long eyelashes — oh he was gorgeous! Very quiet as a lad, but he seemed happy. You want to talk to his aunties about him…’
The old man who owned the main house called Lucilla one day. Cretticus senior, his face seamed, rather staring eyes; he spent his time in a long daybed in the peristyle garden, apparently snoozing, in a nonagenarian’s dream-state. He was all there if you spoke to him though. ‘Sound fellow, your Praetorian.’