equestrian rank he had acquired from his father.
A distinct shadow crossed the soldier’s scarred face. Vinius was polishing off a bowl of olives, not greedily but throwing them into his mouth with a relentless action that disguised emotion. ‘My wife died — the city epidemic. Our child too.’
Gracilis could not fully interpret the expression Vinius wore. Arruntia and their young daughter had died very recently. Vinius was still suffering a lot of family blame. One of his aunts, speaking for them all, had attacked him bluntly for not making a home visit when his dependants were sick. His last contact with Arruntia had been a typical blazing row. The next time he showed his face was at the funeral.
Losing his family had plunged him into guilt and despair. However, other women were disturbingly eager to console him. Foremost was a smart and sassy young matron called Pollia, supposedly his wife’s best friend. She had left her husband so was free to cosy up to the widower; she explained that immediate remarriage was the best way for Vinius to regain his equilibrium. He fell for it. His aunts were disgusted, though Pollia, a subtle operator, made him feel this was expected by everyone.
I give it two months! said her mother.
They lived with Pollia’s mother. Too late, Gaius saw this as a mistake. Guilt over his dead wife was expressing itself as lust (which had to be modified because of poor sound proofing in the mother’s apartment). Sex attracted him, but sex with Pollia never seemed a complete foundation for thirty years of mild debate over whether he liked carrots or how many relatives to invite for Saturnalia — family life as his aunts had drilled him to expect it. He and Pollia were not soulmates. He was glad he could flee to the camp.
Pollia had a child, not previously mentioned. Fortunately, Vinius took to the little boy.
He had made up his mind to be a better father this time.
Don’t bet on it! sniffed his aunts.
He outlined the situation to Gracilis; he even admitted he had been hustled: ‘I discovered the Praetorian salary and big bonuses make us a great catch.’
Decius Gracilis had never married. There was no idealised young girl left behind in his birthplace whom he mourned in his cups; no smelly little bundle he had visited in a native hut in Britain or Moesia, promising to regularise the arrangement once he became a veteran; no scandalous affair with a commander’s wife. It was possible his interest in Vinius had a suppressed homosexual element, though if so the centurion himself failed to recognise it and Vinius, whose attributes were clear, had never felt threatened. ‘Does this marriage mean you keep trying to wangle home leave?’
Vinius grinned. ‘No, sir; I manage to avoid domestication.’ Excellent. The centurion mentally dismissed the wife, not giving her another thought for all the rest of their service together. How Vinius would elude Pollia had yet to emerge.
The olive dish was empty and Vinius pushed it away across the table; they went through a brief mime querying whether to order another but deciding to stay as they were. Gracilis plucked at a still unfinished saucer of shellfish. Vinius signalled to a waiter for another round of drinks, his turn. They were emptying beakers at a steady pace, nothing excessive but no holding back. It indicated their complete off-duty relaxation and let Vinius forget his personal life.
He looked as if he felt better for talking. Gracilis supposed Vinius had just needed a few drinks.
‘So…’ Here came the inevitable question from Gracilis. A new Praetorian wanted to evaluate their Emperor. ‘He’s been in for a year. What’s he like?’
Vinius glanced around before he answered. They were seated on benches in a small internal courtyard, beneath a pergola vine. Sparrows minded their own business as they hopped after crumbs. Other customers were taken up with their own conversation and none were sitting too close. But Gracilis noticed the look and approved.
Vinius took his time answering: ‘Well — he’s not Titus.’
Gracilis cocked his head, unfazed. ‘A complete bastard? Well, we like a challenge.’
‘I think he’ll give us that.’
‘You’ve been up close?’
‘Comes with the job, sir.’
‘So is he your magic sponsor?’ This complication had to be factored in before Gracilis definitely invited Vinius to work with him.
‘I bloody well hope not. I know when I may have caught his eye, but nothing definite was ever said. I like to keep my head below the parapet.’
Good lad! ‘So does he talk to his Guards?’
‘No.’
‘Does he talk to you?’
‘No.’ Vinius preferred to forget their odd moment on the Capitol after the fire.
‘Thank you, Mars!.. I might have been worried about you, young man.’
‘I would be anxious myself! But he doesn’t talk to anybody. If there is a problem, it’s that he keeps his own company — too much, some say. He locks himself away. He goes for long walks, alone. Nobody knows what to make of him — and if you ask me, he does it all on purpose; he likes creating anxiety.’
‘Does protecting him get awkward?’
‘No.’ Vinius considered the question further, but stuck with his initial assessment. ‘No, he accepts protection.’
‘Is he concerned about his safety?’
‘Very much.’
‘Well that helps!’ Gracilis took a deep swallow of his wine. He was thinking. In the opinion of the other ranks, chief centurions did not bother with thought. He, like most centurions, saw himself as different, more astute, more intense, thoroughly commendable.
He reckoned Vinius had spotted being assessed. Vinius had changed since Britain. He had become fatalistic. There was a hard edge to him. That could do no harm. The world was hard.
A waiter brought new wine. Gracilis watched Vinius pour, steadying the flagon’s neck on the rim of the beaker instead of holding it above as most people thought good-mannered. Noticing his stare, Vinius explained that after losing his eye he could no longer focus length. Generally he managed. His one-eyed field of vision was almost as wide as it would be with two; only objects on his far right required him to turn his head. But, he freely told Gracilis, he was apt to tip liquor all over the table, even when sober, and he loathed going down steps.
‘Does it affect your weapon-handling?’
‘No, sir.’ The Guards would have rejected him otherwise; rightly so. ‘Well, to be honest, I’m lousy with a javelin and I couldn’t set a catapult, but at least I know my weakness. Hand-to-hand is fine. I function.’
With that cleared up, Gracilis continued to gnaw at the subject of Domitian. ‘So what’s the new boy done so far? What’s his style?’
‘Besides forming an extra Guards cohort? He caused a flurry by deciding he requires twenty-four lictors.’ Lictors were the attendants who walked ahead of a great man to let everyone know he was coming. They carried a bundle of rods, to symbolise an official’s right to impose punishments, sometimes with axes to indicate his power to execute. They cleared a passage through the crowds, though were not allowed to disturb Roman matrons — something those doughty women always reckoned a fair return for their obligation to be noble, virtuous, fertile and decorous.
The norm was twelve lictors for a consul; six for a lesser magistrate; one for a Vestal Virgin. It had been twelve for an emperor — in keeping with the original myth that an emperor was simply a leading citizen, albeit for life. Demanding twenty-four raised eyebrows.
‘Let him. Who would want to guard a no-account?’ shrugged Gracilis, unmoved. ‘ He knows his place in the cosmos now, by all means: I hear he really throws himself into using his power of life and death!’
Vinius paused, warily. ‘Yes, he had a cull. Men who had been too closely associated with Vespasian or Titus were rapidly removed.’
‘Exile?’
‘No; a short march to Hades.’
‘Well that stops plotting.’
‘And it sends warnings. The Flavians are not soft. Vespasian used to boast that he put no man to death after
