‘Bright idea. While you work up an appetite reading how our Master and God graciously invited wonderful Statius to a Saturnalia party — free cheese puffs and belly dancers with big breasts; ooh how exciting! — I’ll nip out and fetch us a chicken supper.’
‘He does not specify the flirty-girls’ bustband size.’
‘Too rude. Make him too popular. This silly bugger describes your Earinus — ’
‘Not mine.’
‘Having his eunuch operation, without even saying “testicles”. The bum has no idea how to write a bestseller. He dreams of being read by an adoring minority in two thousand years’ time, when he should be putting loaves on the table now… Do you want a delicious Frontinian?’
‘Yes, please, dear heart.’
‘Any sides?’
‘Just a green salad and a kiss from you.’
‘Good news!’ chortled Gaius. ‘Kisses are this week’s special offer. Ask for one, get a hundred free.’
That was, thought Lucilla, slightly derivative of the poet Catullus although it must be accidental. Gaius would maintain no putrid poet suggested his lines, and Lucilla accepted that they came from his own heart.
Domitian was suffering a bad period, that much was known. His paranoia had flared up like a boil; the fear was that it would escalate with no remission. Full details of his illness were carefully concealed, because the illnesses of the great are privileged information for supposed national interest reasons.
‘I would have thought,’ groaned Gaius, ‘it was in the national interest to know if we are being governed by a maniac.’
He was having his own flare-up — of gloomy cynicism. Many of the Guards were in low spirits. They preferred to be protecting a ruler who set an example of splendid control, not a head-case. Some of the old hands were spending time in drinking dens remembering how much they had liked Titus.
Despite precautions, hints leaked out. People at court had overheard tantrums and slammed doors. They noticed how the palace slaves slunk along corridors keeping close to the wall, heads down and unwilling to be spoken to. Imperial freedmen were jumpy. The Empress never gave anything away, yet even she seemed even more hard-faced than usual.
In the rest of the Empire things seemed quiet. The bad result was that Domitian stayed in Italy therefore, either in Rome itself or at Alba or Naples or some other place too close for comfort. Some resort where the inhabitants thought he was marvellous (because the lower class never saw much of him) while the uppercrust (who did see him close up) were beginning to get itchy about hosting him on their patch.
There were occasional upsets. A tribe in Africa, the Nasamones, rebelled against brutal Roman tax gatherers. There were savage reprisals, but they fought back and invaded the Roman commander’s camp. Then, drunk on wine they had looted, the rebel tribe were wiped out. When details were reported, Domitian proudly announced, ‘I have forbidden the Nasamones to exist.’ Uncompromising words. Liberal minds were shocked.
Eventually new war loomed on the Danube. He enjoyed war, and it kept him occupied. Taking his time, absorbed in every detail, he was at his best. For once, his introverted character made him ideal. It combined his strange personal mixture of brooding with his talent for strong, obsessive planning. He was as good at second-guessing foreign tribes as at scrutinising perceived rivals in Rome; they were all his enemies. But nobody else could decide whether to be reassured or nervous. Which did make them nervous.
All his advisory council were agitated. ‘Nothing new,’ said Gaius. ‘But perhaps some of them may one day break out in spots and tackle him.’
‘Is that a hope, love?’
‘I’m a Guard. I would have to give naughty boys a reprimand.’
‘Since it would mean burning off their goolies and putting their heads on spikes in the Forum, they may hold back.’
‘I fear so,’ replied Gaius. ‘He’s got them all so hypnotised with dread, we must be stuck with him.’
Domitian either became more solitary or in public revelled in bad-mannered behaviour. He would finish an evening at court forcing the bullied diners to endure not just wrestlers, tumblers and jugglers but troupes of seedy entertainers from the east, or horrible fortune-tellers. Given the legal attitude to magic in general, and anything that touched on the Emperor’s personal fate in particular, this was doubly cruel. Reluctant participants were coerced into applauding these acts, although at any moment their host could contradict himself and turn on them for taking part in forbidden activities.
Even at dinner, he would scarcely eat but would prowl and watch others, while belching or throwing food at his guests. It might seem uncouth but harmless, yet when people were too scared even to be seen wiping off the gravy with a napkin, it was an ugly abuse of power.
‘Anyone brought up by a batch of aunts knows that good rulers have good manners,’ Gaius grumbled. ‘Every time he burps in a senator’s face or flips a meatball, I hear my old granny mutter darkly from the grave, “courtesy costs nothing”. Of course you would never choose an emperor for his table habits, but it’s not unknown to be rid of one for crass behaviour — when a Praetorian Prefect finally snapped and murdered the Emperor Gaius, aka Caligula, the reason was that Caligula had given the Prefect, who was sensitive, an obscene watchword to pass on once too often.’
‘Who was that?’
‘His name was Cassius Chaerea. Domitian should worry, because first the Guards ambushed the mad tyrant themselves, and then that was the time they created the next emperor: they found old Claudius hiding behind a curtain and proclaimed him on the spot.’
‘For a joke.’ Lucilla knew that story. ‘Is Casperius Aelianus sensitive?’
‘Not sensitive enough. A wood-block traditionalist. All “my Emperor, right or wrong” — so hard luck, Rome.’
Domitian was determined to validate his own divinity, using that of his forebears. He inaugurated the splendid Temple of the Flavians, which he built on the site of his uncle’s house in Pomegranate Street. Domitian had been born in that house during the period when his father lacked funds, then he had spent a lot of time there later, with his uncle Flavius Sabinus, while Vespasian was away abroad.
The new temple was spectacular. It dominated an area outside the traditional sites of public monuments, on the Quirinal Hill. Set in a large square porticus and magnificently elevated on a podium, it was striking even by the high standards of Domitian’s building programme. Marble and gold decorated the huge domed mausoleum; there were many very fine reliefs showing celebratory scenes that involved Vespasian and Titus, scenes which associated them with the mythical founders and heroes of Rome, such as Romulus, who was himself turned into a god, according to legend. Domitian brought the ashes of his father and brother, with those of Julia and other relatives, and installed them together here. For generations to come, this great temple would signify the permanence of Rome.
Lucilla visited the Temple of the Gens Flavia along with other old family servants; it was a duty of Flavian freedmen and freedwomen to show formal respect. She had known Flavius Sabinus’ house from her earliest years and was saddened to see that comfortable private home turned first into a demolition site and then a strange new monument. Contrary to Domitian’s intentions, she felt that the family she had served with her mother and sister were now lost, rather than reaffirmed. Her patron Flavia Domitilla was married to Sabinus’ younger son, Clemens, who could, in theory, have felt he owned the original house even though Domitian had taken it over.
Insofar as Domitilla spoke of her reaction, she seemed to share Lucilla’s saddened feelings. It was the first real sign of unease between the Clemens family and their cousin the Emperor, though more was to come.