It was exciting when the nervous trainers managed to persuade unusual combinations to fight, and even more exciting when uncooperative animals ran amuck, throwing things in the air and threatening to clamber over the safety barrier right beside the marble seats on the front rows where the senators sat. Fortunately — or not, if you loathed the aristocracy — the barrier was a cunning arrangement of vertical rollers that defeated both animals and gladiators who tried to escape. The maverick rhinoceros was a firm favourite. The bull maddened by torches briefly had his fan club. The trained elephant that approached the royal box then knelt submissively before Titus showed the Emperor as a man with so much charisma he could control wild creatures, while the lion that let a hare play harmlessly between his paws was generally thought adorable. Less appealing was another lion, who unsportingly mauled his trainer.
Gaius Vinius had never been cold-blooded; he was generally pleased that Titus left for lunch so he could miss the execution interlude. That had fairly routine pitting of thieves and army deserters against ferocious wild beasts — or sulky beasts that had to be goaded to attack the cringing convicts. There were also lurid re-enactments of scenes from mythology and theatre: Pasiphae being raped by a bull, supposedly for real; crucifixion of a bandit in a notorious play, adapted to a gory new version where Prometheus had his liver torn out by a Caledonian boar; the Orpheus myth cruelly perverted so that although the pinioned criminal who was acting the lyre player did seem to tame various creatures with his exquisite melodies, a wild bear who was presumably tone-deaf then tore him to pieces.
After this basic stuff, professional gladiatorial combat seemed to represent pure skill. There were single bouts and group fights. To meet the Roman fascination with the exotic there were female contestants and dwarves. At one point, Titus presided over a record-breaking combat: two evenly matched fighters called Verus and Priscus slogged it out for hours, neither able to break his opponent, neither willing to concede defeat. A draw was not unknown but a draw with honour was unheard of. When Titus eventually persuaded the crowd to allow him to declare equal rewards for these fabulous contestants, giving both gladiators their freedom, the occasion crowned the Games.
This inauguration would be the highlight of his reign. Nevertheless, a sense of anticlimax visibly began to affect the Emperor. Perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps he was grieving his father’s demise, perhaps he was already in poor health. On the final day, Titus dedicated the building formally, along with the nearby public baths that he had built in his own name. Something went wrong at the sacrifice, and the bull escaped, which was a bad omen. It was said that Titus wept.
Vinius was not on duty but he heard about it. Many of the Guards were unsettled.
There were no more celebrations. The following September, Titus set off from Rome along the Via Salaria towards the Sabine Hills, his father’s place of origin and a long-time family resort in summer. They owned a beautiful villa above Falacrina where Vespasian had been born. On the way, at Aqua Cutiliae, where only two years previously Vespasian had developed a fatal fever after bathing in the ice-cold springs, Titus also fell sick. Immediately his condition must have looked serious. He was taken on to Falacrina, clearly aware that he was dying. His brother must either have been travelling with him or was called to the scene. Lack of clarity about Domitian’s whereabouts and role would add to subsequent suspicions over what happened.
Back in Rome, the first Gaius Vinius knew was a clamour in the Praetorian Camp. When he emerged from his barracks block to investigate, he was told all leave had been cancelled and a full parade summoned. News had flown round. Men reappeared from all quarters of the city. The camp was soon packed. Tension was so palpable the air tingled.
It seemed Domitian Caesar had arrived in a state of high excitement. He galloped in and demanded the Guards’ protection and acclamation. Vinius saw him a short time later, his eyes so bright that he looked drugged, his face flushed, heavy sweat stains on his tunic. Any of Vinius’ resourceful aunts would have made the agitated prince open wide for a big spoonful of calming syrup, followed by a lie-down. Vinius himself thought the man needed a stiff drink among older, more equable friends, then a siesta with a couple of well-articulated dancing girls to put life in perspective. But real life had ended for ever for the impatient Caesar.
Domitian insisted his brother was dead. The Praetorian Prefect responded with caution, still nominally Titus’ man; he probably thought his own days would be numbered from the moment Titus was officially declared dead. Troops began talking amongst themselves of a large accession bonus — for most of them, their second in two years. Somebody said to Vinius in a speculative voice, ‘This should be good news for you!’ but the prospect of Domitian coming to power failed to fill him with joy.
A small mounted squadron was quietly despatched to Falacrina but met a sobbing messenger who confirmed the news. All kinds of rumours rapidly circulated. Most fanciful was the Jewish belief that when he destroyed the Temple at Jerusalem, Titus had slept with a prostitute and a gnat entered his ear, growing inside his head for years until he could no longer bear the noise of it. Perhaps the headaches he suffered were really malarial, though doctors seemed to doubt that. Popular belief was that Domitian’s plots had finally succeeded; one way or another, he had murdered Titus. More believable was that he had ordered Titus to be finished off by putting him into an ice-bath; but could this be a proper medical recourse for a patient with such a high fever? The certain truth was that Domitian abandoned Titus to die alone while he raced to Rome, indecently eager to replace his brother.
An announcement was sent from Domitian to the Senate. To his pique, the senators spent all the rest of that day applauding the virtues of Titus and grieving their loss of such a beloved leader. Theoretically they could hail anyone to follow him, which was the reason Domitian so hurriedly pleaded for Praetorian support. Only the next day did the senators appoint Domitian formally as successor. They would pay for their delay.
The Praetorian Prefect lined up the ranks. To a man, the nine thousand Guards dutifully swore the oath of allegiance to their new master, their mighty shout audible across large parts of the city and intentionally threatening. So, apart from the first year, Gaius Vinius would spend his service as a Praetorian Guard with Domitian as his emperor.
He swore the oath. He took the money. He supposed that he would do his duty.
6
Alba. The Alba Longa of the ancients, pride of Latium, chief city of the Latin League, whose kings claimed an unbroken line from Ascanius, son of Trojan Aeneas, to Romulus, founder of Rome. The lake, a deep volcanic crater with sheer sides is accounted the most beautiful in Italy. On a high sunlit ridge stands a five and a half square mile compound of elegant white buildings, centred on the Emperor’s enormous villa, built over the citadel of the old, lost town. This has been and will always be a holiday retreat for the best people. Its devotees say it has the best views in the world.
In high summer, it has the best houseflies. Or so the Alban flies believe.
High on a fold of drapery indoors, motionless against its deep Tyrrhenian purple hue, Musca broods, thinking up her next move. Her six feet have suckered onto the sumptuous cloth, so she hangs head-down with ease. Close by is an ornate plaster cove, creamy and delicate, its soft surface always welcoming. Less appeal belongs to the smooth polish of marble columns, though their patterning offers greater camouflage.
She fixes her attention on the human below. He sits, almost as motionless as she. He is a man who has obtained what he yearned for and now has to think what to do with it. By definition the people he most wanted to impress have died before him.
He could be asleep, but it is the fly’s business to be certain and she knows he is not.
He has failed to settle easily into his coveted role. He is the foremost man in the civilised world. Twenty nine legions in the front line provinces, plus nine elite cohorts of Praetorian Guards, three of the Urban Cohorts and seven of the vigiles, have all sworn, every man in them, allegiance to their new emperor. Son of a divine father, sibling to a newly deified brother, husband to an august wife, father of an august son. In Italy, and in every province throughout Europe, Asia and Africa, each man, woman and child now knows his name. They speak it with as much familiarity as if he were a relative; most honour him; some already revere him as a god. They erect statues of his wife; they love his infant son. Soon they will see his profile every time they hold coins. His statues will dominate marketplaces and basilicas at the ends of the Empire. Camel drovers and peat choppers, date harvesters and cinnabar miners, oyster fishers and ivory merchants will all be aware of him, the ruler who nominally cares for their welfare; has them counted; sends them benign instructions, grinds them into poverty with impossible demands for
