This trial took place at the Emperor’s Alban villa. It was not held in secret; other emperors had been severely criticised for political hearings held behind closed doors. Domitian summoned all the priests to him there and, as Pontifex Maximus, he presided as if in open court. Cornelia remained in Rome, in the House of the Vestals — which had been newly enlarged and restored by Domitian as part of his civic building programme, though not really with the intention of providing a more luxurious place for wicked women to endure house arrest.
Ironically, there was a special sanctuary of Vesta at Alba Longa, associated with the sacred flame, which Aeneas’ son Ascanius was supposed to have first deposited there after arriving from Troy. Cornelia could have been moved to Alba and permitted to attend her trial. Domitian, who had tunnel vision when it suited him, overlooked this.
Mettius Carus prosecuted. He was an informer setting out on a career of supporting Domitian, whose examination of witnesses would become famous for its cruelty. One senator, allegedly, was so stressed by Carus’ harshness, he collapsed and died in the Curia.
Despite rigorous questioning, the case proved extremely difficult. It began to look as if the Chief Vestal would be acquitted again, leaving Domitian shamefaced. He wanted to be seen as an unflinching keeper of religious observance. To charge a guilty Vestal would be painful, but he would endure it for the welfare of Rome. However, to charge an innocent Vestal would be criminal and an offence to the gods. If she was exonerated, he would come out of this looking far worse than when he began.
Cornelia’s supposed lovers ranged from an equestrian called Celer to the highest, Valerius Licinianus, a senatorial ex-praetor, just one rank down from consul. No one of that status could be tortured, nor even have arresting hands laid on him. The lovers all had legal training; Licinianus was considered one of the best advocates in Rome. As praetor, he had been the city’s senior magistrate, presiding over the legal code. The prosecutor, Carus, carried much less weight and for a long time could make no progress in trying to extract confessions. The only evidence against Licinianus appeared to be that he had given refuge to one of Cornelia’s freedwomen, though that did argue for friendship between him and the Virgin beforehand.
Seeing the case slip away without witnesses, Domitian began to ferment with anxiety. Then, at the last gasp, friends of Licinianus persuaded him he was doomed either way. Domitian was intent on pushing through the charges. To escape dying under the rods, Licinianus needed to admit guilt and beg the Emperor for mercy. He suddenly confessed — or, as Herrenius Senecio described it dryly, speaking for him in court: Valerius Licinianus ‘withdrew his defence’.
Ecstatic and relieved, Domitian bounded through the villa at Alba, crowing that Licinianus had exonerated the prosecution. The ex-praetor’s life was spared. He was exiled, but first allowed to take as many of his possessions as he could carry away before they were officially confiscated. Licinianus was never asked to give details of his admitted affair, even though in the absence of formal evidence the question of Cornelia’s guilt or innocence would remain permanently clouded.
The other purported lovers continued to deny the charges. They were condemned by association and beaten to death as tradition demanded. Celer, for one, died under the rods still protesting his innocence.
The Chief Vestal herself was condemned to the old punishment of interment underground, an example of Domitian’s rigid adherence to the law. The punishment would be supervised by the college of pontiffs, fifteen fusty priests of the state religion; if he decided to join in, Domitian would be there as Pontifex Maximus. However much Domitian longed to enhance his reputation, the whole affair was extremely unpopular. There were, therefore, concerns about law and order on the day. The college of pontiffs would take responsibility for the woman’s burial. Otherwise, oversight of security on this unpleasant state occasion was assigned to the Guards: an ideal test for their new chief-of-staff, Clodianus. He found himself lumbered with ensuring there were no disturbances.
Vinius Clodianus happened to be good at logistics and in his odd way even enjoyed practical arrangements. The more unusual, the more he rose to the challenge. That was why he had this job. He had been sidekick to not just one but two of the army’s best scamming, bluffing, fiddle-fixing senior officers: Decius Gracilis and the previous cornicularius, a pair of tough old soldiers who had consistently escaped from hairy moments as if going for a stroll on a beach. He had learned much from them. He knew he must prepare in meticulous detail, on the basis that if the worst could happen, it would. He was unfazed. He could plan the unplannable — as this was, given that no one could remember the last Vestal Virgin interment. There was no entry in the manual for ensuring a live burial went off quietly.
He conducted research. He pored over historical records. He familiarised himself with the traditional order of events. Much was shrouded in secrecy but he made an intelligent guess at the protocol.
He organised a runner to liaise with the college of pontiffs, so even though the snooty priests were ritually intent on not telling him anything, with luck he would at least know when the party was about to start. The Praetorians would arrive on time. If Domitian suddenly sailed down from Alba to watch, Clodianus would make sure the tribune of the day supplied an appropriate honour guard. Once the target had been dropped tidily inside her tomb, the only requirement was for a very discreet detail to conduct observation at the site. A small daily presence. With perhaps tighter precautions nightly. Just in case any subversive idiots — stoics, Christians, sons of senators out on a drunken spree, do-gooding women who should be at home weaving — scuttled up under cover of darkness to start removing earth.
A couple of rotas would do it. That, and maniacal supervision, which he would undertake himself. Clodianus would take no chances. He would be on duty throughout.
It was sorted. He ought to be confident. However, it was his first major exercise, when he had yet to get his feet comfortably under his new desk. It would be fair to say the new cornicularius had a few collywobbles.
What a boy needed for that, his old aunties would tell him, was a nice big cake oozing with a lot of honey.
So, with the Vestal’s descent programmed for evening like any traditional funeral, earlier that afternoon Vinius made his way down from the Camp towards the Forum, where the procession would start. He had had a haircut and shave. He wore the most formal degree of Praetorian city dress: hobnails, the red tunic that distinguished an officer of his standing, with his sword concealed by a toga. No helmet. A notebook with his many comforting lists was tucked in his military belt.
He had an hour or two in hand. On the way, he was sufficiently early to call at the bakery on Ten Taverns Street, where he obtained two of their largest and gooiest confections, one for himself and one for Cretticus, his amicable landlord at the Insula of the Muses. He would have bought three, had he realised that when he walked into the peaceful courtyard garden he would find Flavia Lucilla gossiping with the old man. Undeterred, Gaius tore his own cake in two and handed her half before she could start simpering and pretending not to be hungry.