reconciled; he took his loss hard and made no secret of it. Someone complimented him on his voice; he joked that he had given up sex and gone into training (as vocalists did). Then when Titus once urged him to remarry, Lamia scoffed, ‘Why — are you looking for a wife yourself?’ In the end, he was prosecuted on a trumped-up charge. He was supposed to have composed libellous verse.
The written word was always dangerous. Suspicion was so invasive that on two occasions issues of intellectual freedom drove Gaius and Lucilla further apart. What Lucilla had heard about Vinius at work, in gossip from his family, convinced her that he had become an accomplice to Domitian’s repression.
The first time they clashed was at the home of Felix and Paulina when Lucilla was invited for Marcia’s birthday. Vinius did not attend the meal, but turned up with a present for the young girl afterwards. It was raining; he was wearing his hooded military cloak and although he unfastened the front toggles, he kept it on so was clearly not staying. To avoid him, Lucilla stepped out on a sun terrace ‘for air’, but he followed her.
It was ages since he had spoken to her directly. He came out munching cake in a casual way, but the confrontation was preplanned because he quickly broached the unusual subject of a poem by her friend Statius, about Rutilius Gallicus. This happened after the City Prefect regained his health and resumed his duties. How Vinius knew about the poem was never clear, for Statius had not yet published his collection; an informer must have gone to one of the poet’s popular readings, heard him recite a draft addressed to Rutilius, and made an insinuating report.
‘The piece began, “Rutilius has recovered, thank you, gods; you do exist!” Makes you vomit,’ declared Vinius, a frank critic.
‘Papinius Statius writes in what is called the mannerist style,’ Lucilla replied in a haughty tone, staring out at the rain which had come on suddenly earlier and still drenched the empty streets. A damp breeze chilled her arms; she huddled in her stole. ‘Much as I like him, I agree the heavy classical allusion can seem overdone.’
‘He must be taking the piss.’
‘He writes occasional poems to mark public events, or poems of friendship. Celebrating a marriage, bon voyage, a new bath house-’
‘Lament for a dead parrot!’ snorted Vinius. Lucilla was already dismayed, then he went into startling detail: ‘Listen: in this Rutilius effort, according to your crazy poet friend, the god Apollo and his medico son Aesculapius personally flew here and saved the Prefect with a mystical infusion of some herb called dittany from Crete. What rubbish. It’s an insult to the excellent Themison of Miletus, who I know used a very successful healing regime based on sympathy and rest. One passage described Rutilius sprawled and inert — it mentions overwork, lack of sleep, how he was frozen in inactivity — ’
Alarmed, Lucilla interrupted, ‘Is this an official visit?’
Vinius stared at the depressing weather.
‘Gaius Vinius, are you interrogating me?’
‘If it was official I would have the militia outside.’ Inside in fact, with you tied to a chair… ‘One question: I see nothing to be ashamed of in the man’s collapse. Rutilius seems open about it. Everyone knew he was unwell. But to avoid a crisis of confidence, it was officially decided not to give out exact details.’
Lucilla finally understood. ‘You think I told Statius what happened?’
‘I am trying not to believe that.’
‘You’re scared you’ll get into trouble for having said too much to me!’
Vinius glowered. ‘Think that if you must. So, Flavia Lucilla, did you pass on what I told you?’
‘No.’
‘Thank you.’
Although bitterly resentful, Lucilla tried to diffuse trouble: ‘Rutilius writes; he attends the literary circle. During his recovery he talked freely about his symptoms. He told Statius himself.’
‘Fine.’
‘Is that it? You are not much of an interrogator; what if I am lying?’
‘Are you?’
‘No.’
‘Case closed then.’ Vinius shrugged. Refastening his cloak toggles, he appeared to be leaving. ‘Sorry. Mistrust festers, until even the innocent are seen as guilty. The worst is, it takes almost nothing to make you feel guilty.’
‘It must be hard to do your job,’ sneered Lucilla.
‘Better I do it, than somebody less scrupulous,’ said Gaius briefly, as he left her alone on the wet terrace.
Perhaps he really believed that.
She called after him from the doorway. ‘I thought you might mention artichokes!’
All the family indoors were listening. Gaius gave her a pleading look that had been known to win over the sternest of aunts. ‘An accident. I just couldn’t resist. I had hoped my replacement met your schedule of reparations.’
‘Nobody buys me!’ Lucilla hooted.
Pretty well everyone else in Rome was being bought. Vinius Clodianus was fielding accusations more often than he liked his friends and family to know. Having to keep secrets from your own circle was part of the insidious process. He tried only to take action when he thought action was justified, but sometimes he was given orders from above against his inclinations. If people were guilty, he supported arrests. But sometimes it went too far, he had to admit.
Informing ran through society from highest to lowest level. At the top, where Clodianus was little involved, were members of Domitian’s own council, senators who had been informers under Nero or advisers to Vespasian; some now claimed to have given up, yet remained as shadowy presences behind the scenes. Domitian encouraged senators to accuse one another; he liked the divisiveness. A stigma attached to great men who indulged in prosecutions against their equals. If encouraged by the Emperor, that stigma disappeared, so a star orator might put himself at Domitian’s service almost on a salaried basis. To challenge such activities would question the legitimacy of Domitian’s regime. Few attempted it. Lower down society snuck weasels who would independently lay an information in the hope of being allowed to prosecute for profit, or who even sometimes named names anonymously. These professionals came from all levels, including very baseborn profiteers. Clodianus saw their work all too often.
Sometimes an informer’s involvement was casual. Every evening the actor Latinus would drop by the imperial quarters while Domitian was relaxing, and amuse him with the day’s gossip. Names to investigate then came into the Praetorian office the next morning on chits from Domitian’s palace freedmen.
At the lowest end of society were slaves who betrayed their masters and mistresses. Strictly speaking, it was illegal for slaves to act as witnesses against their owners, but a device had always existed to get around that; they were first bought by the state, using compulsory purchase orders. Although penalties for disloyal slaves were severe, in practice they stood to gain large financial rewards, plus their freedom. One harsh word at home could make them eager for that.
Domitian used defecting slaves as a constant resource nowadays. No one was safe from hostile eyes in the dining room, hostile ears in the bedroom. Clodianus was not obliged to involve himself in domestic enquiries, the Urban Cohorts did that; but as ex-vigiles his expertise had been recognised. He could give the Urbans a steer about which doors to knock on, when the door should be kicked down instead, whether interviewing slaves in a discreet bar might work, or when the slaves should just be picked up and tortured without ceremony.
Although the moral conduct laws offered the most notorious possibilities, many other charges were made. It was not all bad news. Abuse of office had once been rife — either overseas governors who acted like bandits in their provinces or officials in Rome who took bribes. Proving bribery could be difficult because the donor had also committed an offence and if they achieved what they wanted, they kept quiet afterwards. In fact, Domitian’s reign showed a marked decline in abuses of office, due to his obsessive control over appointments.
Otherwise, the crimes Clodianus regularly looked into were usury (which was illegal but of course happened everywhere), inheritance fraud (often keeping quiet about a will in order to avoid paying tax), and religious deception; that mainly involved Jews who, for financial reasons, pretended not to be Jewish. A tax of two denarii per head was imposed on Jewish men, women, children and the elderly, and also converts; it was used to build and maintain the Capitoline Temple of Jupiter, a deliberate humiliation as it replaced a tithe previously paid by Jewish
