Vinius requested discharge. He knew when he had reached his limit.
Domitian generally had two Praetorian Prefects, one military, one with an admin background. Replacing the slain Fuscus, here on the Danube was Casperius Aelianus. He seemed well briefed and perhaps knew of Domitian’s previous role as Vinius’ sponsor. Whether that, or simply reluctant to lose a man with good years left in him, Casperius Aelianus nagged Vinius to stay on.
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘That’s nothing. You can’t retire; you’ll need employment.’
Capitulating, Vinius demanded the vigiles. Instead, Aelianus offered a headquarters post; he would remain a Guard, with the salary and security. There was an unstated agreement that he could stay in Rome as a non-combatant.
He was to work under the cornicularius, dealing with records; that suited him. A desk job. Some soldiers or paramilitaries, who are prevented by wounds or mental troubles from carrying out the full range of duties, fret against it. Not him. He would suit this posting just as he had enjoyed the vigiles, though without having to put up with a stream of thieves and arsonists.
Before reassignment, the prisoners rallied slowly. They were all fragile, becoming worse before they improved. Most refused to talk about the past four years. The first time they went to the fort’s bath house no one could get them out of there; the bath keeper complained they left him an infestation and stole all the rope-soled footwear. The barracks barber had to work overtime tidying them up. Some rushed to the local good-time girls, though they came back subdued, shocked by their inability to function.
The Emperor gave them what were called generous gifts of money and arms; that meant he confirmed their four years’ back pay and rearmed them without the usual deduction from salary. Better, his personal medic attended them. They needed his help. Drink, after four years of abstinence, had disastrous results. Even food caused upsets; they fell on their first Roman meal, only to vomit or to find it dashed straight through them. Vinius fainted; the doctor said it was because he was tall. The imperial quack imposed a strict planned diet to wean them back to proper nourishment. They joked nervously that they hoped he was not the man who had tended Titus in his death throes, which was how they felt. For a time they were all quavering invalids.
Eventually Vinius was despatched to Rome. He wanted to march home, head high, but he was stretched ignominiously in a wagon for most of the trip. It took weeks. From Carnuntum, you had to avoid the Alps. He had a lot of time to think. Mostly he just cleared his mind and waited.
At the Porta Flaminia, he clambered off his transport to stagger into the city on his own feet. As he took the long, straight ceremonial road that ran from the triumphal gate to the Forum, his first reaction was indignant. He had seen Domitian’s new buildings going up; yet during his captivity, the Rome in his mind had been the old city, the city he grew up with as a boy, before the fire. This glittering vista horrified him. Rebuilt and improved buildings in the Campus Martius — the Pantheon and Saepta Julia, the Temple of Isis — looked larger, were larger, now so fabulously ornate and garish that to him they seemed tasteless. The new Temple of Jupiter, an outsize golden blur atop the distant Capitol, was as unfamiliar as an architectural fantasy on a wall fresco. Instead of feeling he had woken from a nightmare, Gaius was living in one, shaky and disorientated.
He could not imagine the best way to announce to his family that he was home from the dead. Until now he had done nothing about them. He had enough imagination to become worried what reaction his sudden appearance might cause.
Reluctant to walk in and give his brothers heart attacks, he went for a decent Roman shave and haircut. He sat in the chair with his chin in a warm napkin, as uncertain as a teenage boy on his first visit.
What lotion, soldier? Iris? Cretan lily? I can do you a lovely sandalwood…
Hades. Scrap that muck. Camomile I like. Just camomile.
He decided to go to the Praetorian Camp. This meant he had to cross Rome over the northern heights, a slow, gentle, healing stroll through the Gardens of Sallust; it was a good idea and gave him time to adjust. Then a Guard he knew from the old days took time to visit his family for him, to break the news gently.
Felix rushed to fetch him. Shamefaced, he showed his brother their father’s memorial, now with its respectful mention of his own heroic death. ‘Shit, Felix — ’ His brother was in pieces; Gaius also choked. ‘Not many people get to inspect their own tombstone. Thanks!’
He ought to be dead. So many colleagues had failed to make it back — why him? Hideous guilt clamped down on him. Although his brother, who had been a soldier, looked as if he sympathised, Vinius was already trapped in bearing all this alone. Seeing the memorial had increased his unspoken shame that he, fortune’s random choice, had survived the catastrophe.
That evening screams, tears, embraces, slaps on the back, far too much food and far, far too much wine were lavished on him. Aunts who had brought him up — their number now reduced — tottered in to squeeze him, pinch him, slobber tears into coloured handkerchieves, grow horribly tipsy on many cups of sweetened wine. ‘ Just a finger; you know I never drink… ’ His brothers and their wives alternately sobbed or grinned disbelievingly. The two young girls, Marcia and Julia, who could barely remember their uncle, peered around Paulina shyly, then crept up and put garlands on his neck, while their little brother hid under a table and peered out, having no recollection at all of this scary soldier. Even though they were not his children, Gaius was deeply shaken by how much the trio had altered in the years he had been away. The girls were little ladies; the toddler now a boy.
Nobody mentioned the children’s aunt; nor did Gaius Vinius.
Plum Street next morning looked safely unchanged.
The knife shop was still there. He could have done with his folding multi-blade in Dacia. The tassel shop, latterly a sponge emporium, was now occupied by two beauticians. One young woman was giving a manicure to someone seated on a stool on the street; some sixth sense brought the other dainty practitioner from her customer indoors, to stare at Vinius. He gave them a nod. Both girls looked hostile. He needed to work on his act.
They watched him all the way up the stair under the archway. He had no key. He had to knock.
A cute black slaveboy of about seven answered. This prettily tunicked novelty was none too keen on today’s spare, terse apparition but Vinius forced his way in.
Peace.
A pleasant central corridor with civilised wall frescos. Wood floors. Household gods in a niche, flowers in a posy-holder. Women’s voices, relaxed and conversational.
After the boy scampered anxiously into the workroom, his mistress emerged.
‘Don’t faint,’ said Gaius, as he had been planning to say. ‘It’s me.’
‘ Vinius! ’
She had been tending Aurelia Maestinata who was seventy-three and saw no reason to change her lifelong style. It involved a central parting with three deep formal waves descending to each ear. For denting in the waves, Lucilla used a hot metal rod, which she was holding in her right hand. So, it was her left hand she clapped over her mouth to stop herself shrieking. Gaius immediately noticed her wedding ring.
‘Flavia Lucilla.’
He simply spoke her name, in that low, strong voice she had thought she would never forget. The way he said it made Lucilla feel that someone in the world believed her truly excellent.
Her eyes. Gaius could not believe those great brown, wide-set, exotic eastern eyes that she had inherited from her mother had somehow managed to elude his memory despite all the times had had thought about her. She had beautiful, beautiful eyes.
Lucilla was unable to speak. She was agonised with panic, shock, horror at the changes in him. His stick-thin arms, grey flecks in his hair, intangible hints of suffering. He even smelled different.