Domitian kept his own counsel. This is always viewed as moody and suspicious.
Being intelligent, he could presumably see that bringing about the death of an emperor would carry a pervasive after-taint. Assassination sets a bad precedent; historians cluttered up the court, expertly pointing that out, albeit in undertones. If he really did have designs on his brother, he was hampered by the fact that from the start of Vespasian’s reign Titus had appointed himself Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, nine thousand battle-hardened men whose job was to protect their emperor day and night, which they now did with the devotion of uncomplicated soldiers he had personally commanded for ten years. Men to whom Titus had also given a massive donation of cash on his accession, the usual way to guarantee the Guards’ loyalty; their loyalty code was simple.
Topping Titus while nine thousand armoured toughs were looking after him would be difficult. So stabbing Titus at the baths or the Games was out. Even putting arsenic into the cherry preserve at breakfast time, though feasible for a family member, would be the act of an idiot.
Nevertheless, on the twenty-mile journey down from Alba, secluded in his palanquin, it must be natural for a frustrated Caesar, an emperor-in-waiting who might never succeed, to let his thoughts dwell privately on possibilities for becoming an emperor-in-fact. For three or four hours he had not much else to do. He was not a great reader. A bumping litter was no place for entertainments to take his mind off his feelings. Belly-dancers or flautists were out. You could fuck a concubine or eunuch if you really wanted a challenge, but there were easier ways to give yourself a hernia. The Emperor Claudius was supposed to have invented a special chessboard for his carriage, but Domitian’s game was dice, solo. His personality was obsessive enough to throw dice repeatedly for a whole journey to Rome, but in a bumping litter dice got lost too often. He never coped well with that kind of frustration.
It had not struck him that he would not cope with the burned Capitol either.
On arrival, the usual flummery set in. Stretching irritably, he waited for things to start, while as always it took longer than he could bear. He watched people around him in silence, which always worried them. They were scared of him. He recognised it, with a mixture of resentment and bitter glee. All the time a part of him wanted instead to be loved, as his father had been, as his brother still was. Knowing that it would never happen just made him colder and more autocratic.
He gazed up from the Forum to where the Temple of Jupiter should be. Once again it was gone. Its absence took him back to the worst night of his life, that night of terror when he was eighteen.
He had had an unextravagant childhood. They were always short of money. Nonetheless, by the time Domitian was born, Vespasian had become a man of importance, one of the victors of the Roman invasion of Britain and a consul; during those years he was a remote figure to his younger son, often serving abroad. Domitian had been home-schooled whereas Titus, previously, was educated at court with the Emperor Claudius’ son, Britannicus. But Domitian had expected the kind of career his brother had: the army at officer rank, formal entry to the Senate, diplomatic posts abroad, maybe training as a barrister. None of that happened, because his father became emperor.
During Domitian’s teens Vespasian left Rome again, accompanying Nero on a cultural tour of Greece. It unexpectedly led to a further three years away, subduing a revolt in Judaea. Vespasian won the command because Nero had jealously executed a more prominent and popular general, Corbulo, who was probably plotting (though possibly not). Titus went east with Vespasian, first on his father’s staff, but before long leading troops as a general in his own right. Domitian had been left behind in Rome, deposited with his uncle, Flavius Sabinus.
Nero’s antics finally offended Roman taste too much; he was pressured into suicide. A tussle for power ensued. Three new emperors came and went, each lasting only months, each dying violently. Finally, to the astonishment of the snobs in Rome, Vespasian emerged the winner. Having four legions in his command had helped. Another virtue was that his two grown sons guaranteed an enduring succession. He did not venture home to Rome until the situation stabilised; in the last months there was bloody turmoil as his predecessor Vitellius clung on in power.
Flavius Sabinus, one of the most respected men in Rome, was Prefect of the City; he held that post for many years, even under the rival Vitellius. With the Empire and city suffering terribly, Sabinus struggled to clinch his brother’s bid for the throne, desperately brokering peace. Domitian found himself in a thrilling position, though much overshadowed by his uncle and with house arrest imposed by Vitellius.
As Vespasian’s troops marched through Italy towards Rome, Vitellius agreed to abdicate. Prematurely, Sabinus allowed exulting Flavian supporters to congregate outside his house. They were attacked by a furious mob of opponents. By that time, Vitellius was unwell and had no power to control this situation even if he had wanted to. Sabinus took refuge on the Capitol with a motley group of followers; he sent for his own sons and Domitian, who managed to evade his guards and reach the citadel.
Frantic, the Flavians barricaded themselves in. They used statues to block routes up the hill and threw roof tiles down on the Vitellian troops who surrounded them. It became a debacle. Unknown arsonists set fire to the Capitol buildings. Suddenly, everything had gone wrong for the Flavians; in a frantic race against time their army struggled to reach Rome to achieve a rescue. The Vitellians stormed the Capitol before the troops arrived. Sabinus was captured and killed; his mutilated body thrown on the Gemonian Stairs like a traitor’s.
Through the flames and smoke, chaos and mangled corpses, Domitian managed to evade the Vitellians who were hunting him down. As Vespasian’s son, he would have been at best a hostage, but he knew they wanted him dead.
A brave caretaker of the Temple of Jupiter concealed him in his hut through one terrifying night. Next morning, assisted by a loyal freedman, Domitian escaped down to the Campus where he mingled with bare-chested priests of Isis, dressed as one of their exotic number as they went in procession to the sound of sistrums. He made it across the river to the house of a schoolfriend, whose mother hid him. Only when the Flavian army arrived in Rome, two days later, was it safe to emerge and scramble to them. He gave a speech to the soldiers, who then acclaimed Domitian with the title of Caesar and carried him in triumph to his father’s house.
Heady moments followed. He appeared in the Senate, speaking for his father, and acquitted himself well. He handed out honours. He was courted by greybeards and sycophants alike. Women flung themselves at him; he lured one senator’s young wife — one of Corbulo’s daughters — to Pompey’s villa in the Alban Hills where he persuaded her to leave her husband for him.
But the events on the Capitol had affected him for life. His equilibrium was shaken. The sights and sounds of fire and mob violence, and his uncle’s ghastly fate, embedded themselves in his mind. From then on, Domitian trusted nobody and no situation. He had witnessed how good fortune could be snatched way. If the most senior and worthy men could end their lives torn limb from limb, what hope was there for anyone? At eighteen, having never held a military post, he was affected by this violence. His need for disguise and elusion that bleak night had taught him deep reserve, a personal wariness which he never again put off. Ten years later, the smell of the burnt temple on the Capitol was threatening to unman him.