“Ah, your dear friend who was exiled by the emperor. Where is the famous sophist now?”
“In Dacia, if you can believe it’s possible for a letter to travel all the way to Roma from beyond the Danube.”
“They say that Dacia is one of the few civilized lands that the Romans have yet to conquer.”
“One of the few wealthy lands we’ve not yet looted, you mean.”
“How cynical you are, Lucius. Do you not accept the notion that Roma has a special role given to her by the gods, to bring Roman religion and Roman law to the rest of the world, one province at a time?”
He was never quite sure how seriously to take Cornelia when she spoke in a patriotic vein. When all was said and done, despite her disregard for her vow of chastity, she considered herself a devoted priestess of the state religion.
“They say the Dacians have been crossing the Danube and making incursions into Roman territory,” she said, “enslaving farmers on the frontier, looting villages, raping women and boys. It’s almost as if King Decebalus is deliberately provoking Domitian to attack him.”
“Or at least that’s what the emperor wants us to think. It’s an old Roman ploy, pretending that an enemy is responsible for the start of a war we greatly desire to wage. Titus spent the last of the treasure their father looted from the Jews, so Domitian needs money. If he wants to get his hands on King Decabalus’s gold, a war to revenge outrages against Roman citizens will serve his purposes nicely.”
She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Enough of that! I won’t waste our time together debating the Dacian question. You were talking about your friend Dio. Is he terribly despondent?”
“Not at all. His letter was actually quite cheerful. Still, his exile weighs heavily on me.”
She sighed. “Men cross Domitian at their peril – even a harmless sophist like Dio.”
“But philosophers aren’t harmless, or so Dio says. He believes the power of words and ideas is as great as the power of armies. Apparently, Domitian believes that, too. What a contrast to his brother, who proclaimed that he had no fear of words and let people say whatever they wished. The reign of Titus is beginning to look like a golden age.”
“Curious, how golden ages are always so brief,” said Cornelia. “I wonder if Titus’s reign in retrospect seems so golden precisely because it lasted for only a few years. ‘He put not a single senator to death,’ they say. Perhaps he simply didn’t live long enough. When he died of that sudden illness – no one ever suggested there was foul play – Domitian took over without bloodshed. Right away he banished some of Titus’s most fervent supporters, men he felt he couldn’t rely on. But when brother succeeded brother, what really changed? Very little. Still, people were at once nostalgic for Titus, because he died young and handsome and beloved, so Domitian started at a disadvantage. He was never as personable or even-tempered as his brother-”
“That’s an understatement! You’ve seen Domitian’s behaviour at the amphitheatre – his apoplectic fits during gladiator matches, the way he shouts encouragement to one fighter and yells threats at anybody who favours the other. He lowers the tone of the whole place. Spectators emulate him. Fights break out. Some days there’s more blood in the stands than on the sand.”
“You exaggerate, Lucius. Like you, I would prefer to see more decorum in the amphitheatre – the place is dedicated to Mars, and the spectacles are religious rituals – but the sight of so much bloodshed releases powerful emotions in people, even in the emperor, it seems. More disturbing to me are the manoeuvrings in the imperial court. I suppose trouble must develop in every reign, sooner or later – factions form, rivalries emerge, intrigues simmer. It was all made worse when Domitian’s son died.”
“How he loved that little boy! The child was the mirror image of his father, always with him at the games, emulating his every movement.”
“The boy wasn’t just a beloved child. For an emperor, an heir is insurance, because the very existence of a son discourages rivals. When the boy died, Domitian was not only grief stricken, he became acutely suspicious of everyone around him. His courtiers in turn became suspicious of him. Once such an atmosphere develops, even the smallest action by the emperor sets people’s nerves on edge.”
“Exile is hardly a ‘small action’ if you’re the one who’s banished.”
“True,” she said.
“Nor is losing your head.”
“You’re talking about Flavius Sabinus, the husband of Domitian’s niece. That was most unfortunate, and almost certainly uncalled for. My friends in the imperial court tell me Domitian had no real cause to believe Flavius was conspiring against him; the man was arrested and beheaded nonetheless. Unfortunately for your friend, Dio was often seen in the company of Flavius Sabinus.”
“Was that a crime?”
“Perhaps not, but if Domitian had accused Dio of conspiring against him, your friend would have lost his head along with Flavius. Instead, Domitian banished him. Dio is lucky to be alive.”
“Alive, but exiled from Italy, and forbidden to return to his native Bythinia. That’s a steep price to pay for having been a welcome visitor to the home of Titus’s daughter and son-in-law. Do you know the first thing Dio did after he fled Roma? He went to Greece to consult the oracle at Delphi. The oracle is famous for giving ambiguous guidance, but not this time. ‘Put on beggar’s rags,’ Dio was told, ‘and head for the farthest reaches of the empire and beyond.’ So off he went, beyond the Danube.”
“For a man with Dio’s curiosity,” said Cornelia, “travel to far-off lands must offer a splendid chance to learn more about the world. Think of all the obscure metaphors and allusions he’ll be able to work into those learned discourses of his.”
Lucius smiled. “He used just such a metaphor in his letter, referring to the funeral practices of the Scythians. ‘Just as these barbarians bury cup-bearers, cooks, and concubines along with a dead king, so it is a Roman custom to punish friends, family, and advisers for no good reason when a good man is executed.’”
Cornelia drew a sharp breath. “Did you burn the letter?”
“Of course, after I read it aloud to Epaphroditus and Epictetus.”
“Did you read it to anyone else?”
“To Martial, you mean? How he would have loved it! But no, I didn’t share it with him. Dear Martial – Titus’s fawning poet one day, Domitian’s lapdog the next. He was still working on those poems about the inaugural games when Titus died. What to do with all that hard work? Rewrite the verses to suit the new emperor, of course. The book’s just been published. Domitian is apparently quite pleased, and that pleases Martial, because he says Domitian is a more discerning critic than his brother ever was. But Martial would say that. A poet has to eat.”
“While philosophers starve?” Cornelia stretched her arms above her head and extended her toes. Her body rubbed against his, and Lucius felt a stirring of renewed excitement.
“Dio isn’t starving,” he said. “He says the Dacians are actually quite civilized, despite the fact that they worship only one god. The temples and libraries of Sarmizegetusa can’t have much to offer compared to those of Roma, but King Decebalus is reputed to have one of the largest hoards of gold in the world. Where there’s that much wealth, a celebrated philosopher from Roma needn’t go hungry. There’ll always be some Dacian nobleman willing to feed a man who can bring a bit of wit and erudition to his table.”
Lucius rolled onto his side, facing her. He ran his hand over the sinuous curve of her hip, then trailed his fingers across the delta formed by her thighs. “His letter was actually rather inspiring. Nothing seems to dampen his sprits; he always looks for the good in the bad. Dio says his exile may actually be a blessing, despite the trouble it’s caused him. That’s what the Stoics teach. Every misfortune that befalls a man – poverty, illness, a broken heart, old age, exile – is simply another opportunity for a lesson to be learned.”
“Is that what you believe, Lucius?”
“I don’t know. I listen to my philosopher friends and I try to make sense of what they tell me. Epictetus says it isn’t a given event that disturbs us, but the view we take of it. Nothing is intrinsically good or bad, only thinking makes it so. Therefore, think good thoughts, and find contentment in the moment.”
“Even if you’re ill or hungry or in pain, or far from home?”
“Epictetus would say that even an affront to one’s body, like illness or torture, is an external event, outside our true selves. The self of a man is not his body, but the intelligence that inhabits his body. That self is the one thing no one else can touch, the only thing we truly possess. The operation of our own will is the one thing in all the universe over which we have control. The man who learns to accept this is content, no matter what his physical circumstances, while the man who imagines he can control the world around him is invariably confused and embittered. So you see men who are oppressed by the worst sort of misfortunes, yet who are happy nonetheless,
