threatened, but an alteration in the wind saved it. So although sometimes they had to beat out spot-fires, mostly they took a grim kind of rest, standing or sitting in silence as they watched the larger temple being consumed, counting the crashes as its huge columns keeled over. Each collapse seemed to mark their helplessness; each fall emphasised their failure.
For Vinius that was the worst time. It ended in one last terrible night of exhaustion and despair. But it did end. A quieter dawn came, where cries and crashes continued, but the heat and smoke were noticeably more subdued, the fire at last starved and dying.
Sporadic flames still danced amidst the havoc on Capitol and Campus as the stunned vigiles surveyed what they had lost and what they had saved. They were all at their physical limits. Some who seemed unharmed would yet succumb to the effects of smoke and evil particles inhaled in confined places; others would be tormented for years by nightmares. Now they regrouped raggedly, while officers unfeelingly gave new orders. Those who had been on the Capitol then came very slowly down to the Forum, where crowds stood waiting.
People broke out into applause. Gratitude seemed too terrible to bear. Men in the ranks wept. Unbearable emotion swept over them. Though he thought himself tough, Gaius Vinius too felt hot tears rush down his burned cheeks.
Cruelly, they were not yet dismissed. Those of the vigiles who could still keep upright had to parade at the foot of the Capitol. It was explained to them, with a caustic undernote, that a good show must be put on: a party of horrified magistrates and other senators were coming to view the extent of the damage.
Foremost among the dignitaries, acting as imperial representative, would be Titus’ younger brother and heir, Domitian Caesar.
3
Domitian arrived by litter. That was his style. Throughout his life — his adult life in the imperial family, when funds were no problem — he preferred to travel carried by bearers. He lounged aloft like an exotic potentate, which gave an impression of importance, while he could draw all the privacy curtains, indulging his love of solitude.
Inspecting the fire damage on behalf of Titus produced mixed feelings. It recalled his father’s accession ten years ago, when Domitian had had a taste of direct power as he represented Vespasian for a few delicious weeks; he made the most of it. A decade later he was used to playing substitute. If second place riled him, he had learned to conceal his feelings. He knew how to appear modest too; he was as good an actor as his brother. He had inherited all the family talents.
Patrician families in Rome, a select group of famous names who had multiple consuls and generals among their ancestors, believed what mattered was a pedigree that ran back to some moss-covered hutment next door to Romulus. Even without, the once-obscure, up-country Flavians had moved themselves in merely three generations into proximity with gods. They achieved it on ability. They were astute and intelligent; they knew how to position themselves politically; they were diplomats. Domitian, when he chose, had all those qualities.
Above all, the Flavians were clannish. They supported each other financially and socially, gave each other jobs, married their cousins. Domitian had been born and partly brought up in his uncle’s house. Uncle Sabinus had seemingly felt no grudge when his younger brother was bidding for the throne, only proud that it was ‘one of us’. Two of us, as it turned out. Vespasian (with Titus alongside) became emperor. Vespasian (with Titus) was awarded a Triumph for subduing the Jewish Rebellion. Vespasian (and Titus) then ruled the Empire like unofficial partners. Titus now possessed it.
As the spare heir, Domitian was sidelined. Everyone knew that his father and brother had argued about his capabilities and whether he was reliable. He knew it, which certainly rankled. They awarded him a few minor priesthoods, then relegated him to organising poetry competitions. Fortunately he liked poetry. Indeed, the young Caesar wrote and performed verse himself which, naturally, was well-received. It was said that the multi-skilled Titus wrote poetry almost as well as Domitian, though praise for Domitian came from critics who were nervous of him — an aspect which did not escape his notice.
Vespasian died. Titus took over. If Titus, who was currently unmarried, never had male children and if his daughter Julia had no sons, Domitian would succeed to the Empire. Mind you, if Titus lived as long as their father, he could be waiting thirty years.
Understandably, people presumed Domitian was plotting against his brother. Romans were power-hungry. Anyone in his position would try to remove his rival. You had to be practical, and recent precedents existed. Most of the ambitious Julio-Claudian dynasty, with or without assistance from their noble wives and mothers, had had a hand in murdering some relative who stood in their way. The Empress Livia kept in constant touch with a poisoner. Sending soldiers to despatch rivals with swords happened on a routine basis.
In contrast, officially the Flavian creed was to admire ‘traditional Roman values’. That dull ideal meant spending their summers in the country and deploring scandal. Instead of eliminating each other, they glued together in a patriarchal huddle. It was said that once, when Domitian had angered Vespasian, Titus generously urged their father to be lenient, because blood was thicker than water. Now Titus gave a very sincere impression that he loved his ten-years-younger brother, admired him, confided in him, valued him, relied on him, would bequeath him everything in full confidence of excellent stewardship — and that he never felt any tendency to wring Domitian’s sturdy neck until the untrustworthy little bugger croaked.
Domitian kept his own counsel. This is always viewed as moody and suspicious.
Being intelligent, he could presumably see that bringing about the death of an emperor would carry a pervasive after-taint. Assassination sets a bad precedent; historians cluttered up the court, expertly pointing that out, albeit in undertones. If he really did have designs on his brother, he was hampered by the fact that from the start of Vespasian’s reign Titus had appointed himself Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, nine thousand battle- hardened men whose job was to protect their emperor day and night, which they now did with the devotion of uncomplicated soldiers he had personally commanded for ten years. Men to whom Titus had also given a massive donation of cash on his accession, the usual way to guarantee the Guards’ loyalty; their loyalty code was simple.
Topping Titus while nine thousand armoured toughs were looking after him would be difficult. So stabbing Titus at the baths or the Games was out. Even putting arsenic into the cherry preserve at breakfast time, though feasible for a family member, would be the act of an idiot.
Nevertheless, on the twenty-mile journey down from Alba, secluded in his palanquin, it must be natural for a frustrated Caesar, an emperor-in-waiting who might never succeed, to let his thoughts dwell privately on possibilities for becoming an emperor-in-fact. For three or four hours he had not much else to do. He was not a great reader. A bumping litter was no place for entertainments to take his mind off his feelings. Belly-dancers or flautists were out. You could fuck a concubine or eunuch if you really wanted a challenge, but there were easier ways to give yourself a hernia. The Emperor Claudius was supposed to have invented a special chessboard for his carriage, but Domitian’s game was dice, solo. His personality was obsessive enough to throw dice repeatedly for a whole journey to Rome, but in a bumping litter dice got lost too often. He never coped well with that kind of frustration.
It had not struck him that he would not cope with the burned Capitol either.
On arrival, the usual flummery set in. Stretching irritably, he waited for things to start, while as always it took longer than he could bear. He watched people around him in silence, which always worried them. They were scared of him. He recognised it, with a mixture of resentment and bitter glee. All the time a part of him wanted instead to be loved, as his father had been, as his brother still was. Knowing that it would never happen just made him colder and more autocratic.
He gazed up from the Forum to where the Temple of Jupiter should be. Once again it was gone. Its absence took him back to the worst night of his life, that night of terror when he was eighteen.
He had had an unextravagant childhood. They were always short of money. Nonetheless, by the time Domitian was born, Vespasian had become a man of importance, one of the victors of the Roman invasion of Britain and a consul; during those years he was a remote figure to his younger son, often serving abroad. Domitian had been home-schooled whereas Titus, previously, was educated at court with the Emperor Claudius’ son, Britannicus. But Domitian had expected the kind of career his brother had: the army at officer rank, formal entry to the Senate,
