As he had done. Lucilla knew that. Gaius had been completely overcome, just as she was. If she had stayed in his arms the next morning, she could have asked him for anything.
But Alba would remain just a memory, and not solely because it happened five years ago. He could tick her off. A conquest. Wonderful, but done with. To sleep with Lucilla again was now far too risky.
Only one aspect puzzled her: his loyalty whenever she was in trouble, together with the effort he was prepared to expend on rescuing her. Of course he had saved her from Orgilius. As soon as he unlocked the front door, such a decent man was bound to. Then there was no obligation to involve himself; he could have, should have, passed the culprit to her husband for punishment. He need not have made Lucilla dinner; calmed her with his quiet conversation; left his door open because she was terrified; provided a watchdog, at his own cost.
Sometimes he seemed so affectionate. They had an odd friendship, and the only way Lucilla could make sense of it was to think Vinius was drawn to her, but that he did not want to be.
She had to avoid him. She considered giving up their shared apartment, but because of her lease on the ground floor shop, where Glyke and Calliste did so well now, a move would be too complicated; it was not worth doing just to escape her embarrassment.
The awkward incident, combined with unwelcome memories of her early years that Orgilius had brought back, made Lucilla reassess her current life. Men and their deficiencies had put her in a hard mood. She needed none of them. She would be better on her own, which she could tackle now with more confidence than when she was younger.
This, then, was when Flavia Lucilla took her decision to leave her husband.
21
Lucilla went to tell Nemurus face to face.
Various scenarios occupied her head before she tackled him. Mainly she feared an argument, imagining that Nemurus would show how vicious he could be when thwarted. She wondered if he might even hit her.
It was quite unlike that. Nemurus behaved as if expecting her to leave him. Lucilla had forgotten he was a philosopher. Normally she gave it little thought but she knew that every day he practised accepting whatever fate dumped upon him. To endure her departure without anguish was, for him, an exercise in making himself at one with Nature. For a stoic, a useful test in leading a good life.
‘I spoke to your father just now, Nemurus; he is sending someone with a handcart and I shall return all the books you lent me. I do thank you for everything you taught me. I am grateful that you married me. But marriage requires the willingness of both parties to live together; I am afraid I no longer wish to do so.’
‘What caused this?’ The slight peevishness was regrettable in a stoic.
Lucilla described Orgilius’ attack. To explain her escape she said only that ‘someone conveniently arrived’. Nemurus looked suspicious, though did not query this. ‘I spoke to you of my fears, Nemurus, but you brushed my pleas aside. The most terrible thing was that you actually told that man where to find me.’
Pity the poor woman who had to give a notice of divorce to the man who had taught her literary criticism. He was bound to be thinking about vocabulary, style, tone, imagery, arrangement and presentation of material…
But all Nemurus said was, ‘Yes. That was unforgivable.’
Then he surprised her, surprised himself perhaps. He spoke with a warmth he had never shown before of his regard for Lucilla; he declared he would miss their companionship.
It was too late. Lucilla knew that if there had been children she would have struggled on with this marriage, but as things were she saw no point. ‘Try again,’ she urged him. ‘Find someone rich, so you have no worries to distract you from your work.’
Finally Nemurus did snap: ‘While you pursue your affair with that Praetorian!’
Lucilla flinched. ‘I have known Vinius for a long time, but there is no affair.’
‘Does he know that, I wonder?’ mused Nemurus theatrically.
Lucilla walked out, with no more conversation. She and Nemurus had been together just over two years, though never had a home of their own. The household gods they honoured belonged to his parents. There was neither dowry nor property to redistribute. She had no father to return to, but she had her apartment and furniture; Nemurus never made any claim on those. There she would attend to her customers and live her life quietly.
She told nobody she was divorced. It was no one else’s business.
It was a wild time to have upheaval in her life. A menacing atmosphere depressed Rome, with good events only making dark ones more terrible by contrast.
Domitian was pleasing the people. He had given them a congiarium, the personal gift from an emperor to his people, traditionally wine or oil in a special vessel, but now more conveniently a cash payment. He held numerous games in addition to other festivals in the traditional calendar, all adding to Rome’s carnival atmosphere. He became famous for innovation, allowing foot races for young women and freak events featuring female gladiators and dwarves; he lavished money on spectacles, with regular mock-battles between infantry or cavalry, plus naval fights in flooded arenas. He had added two new chariot teams, the Purple and Gold, in addition to the traditional Red, White, Green and Blue. He created a new Stadium and Odeum in the Campus for athletics and music. People were less than happy when he forced them to remain seated during a sudden violent thunderstorm, allegedly causing some to catch a fatal chill, but they forgave him when he feasted them with an all-night banquet for every Circus spectator, served up to them in their seats.
If the people loved him, the Senate did not. Domitian made no attempt to disguise his antipathy. He strictly controlled admission to the upper and middle ranks. Relegation was the least worry. Banishment and execution were a constant threat. It was said that the Emperor encouraged those who were under a cloud to commit suicide, to spare himself the opprobrium of murdering them; there may even have been some who killed themselves out of misplaced anxiety.
Like many men whose own behaviour is questionable, Domitian regulated everyone else’s moral conduct. Vinius had not exaggerated when he warned Orgilius that the Emperor took a direct interest in criminal accusations. Women were charged with adultery while men were just as sternly prosecuted under the law against sodomy with freeborn males. Other crimes were fiercely tackled too. Supposedly one woman was executed merely because she undressed in front of a statue of the Emperor; this caused an extra dimension of fear, because someone in her own home must have informed on her. No one could trust even their most intimate household.
In the privacy of Plum Street Lucilla’s clients, a forthright bunch of matrons, preened the immaculate curls their meek husbands were paying for and ridiculed anyone who kept a statue of Domitian in her bedroom. If it really seemed advantageous to own such a statue, the thing could so easily be relegated to a little-used library or the horrible saloon where one’s husband greeted his morning clients…
Even Domitian’s own household became increasingly destabilised. His removal of state servants continued. Finance and correspondence secretaries came and went for no obvious reason, as if merely to keep the others on the hop.
Recent events still weighed heavily on the Emperor. Nobody knew the full tally of reprisals after the German revolt. Severed heads displayed in the Forum had been only one show of punishment. Domitian refused to publish details of those he executed; rumours of ‘many’ senators being put to death were perhaps false, but the chief officers from the two rebellious legions, who were caught, savagely tortured and killed, were senators’ sons. Details of their torture — scorched genitals and hands cut off — were so specific it sounded true.