diplomatic posts abroad, maybe training as a barrister. None of that happened, because his father became emperor.
During Domitian’s teens Vespasian left Rome again, accompanying Nero on a cultural tour of Greece. It unexpectedly led to a further three years away, subduing a revolt in Judaea. Vespasian won the command because Nero had jealously executed a more prominent and popular general, Corbulo, who was probably plotting (though possibly not). Titus went east with Vespasian, first on his father’s staff, but before long leading troops as a general in his own right. Domitian had been left behind in Rome, deposited with his uncle, Flavius Sabinus.
Nero’s antics finally offended Roman taste too much; he was pressured into suicide. A tussle for power ensued. Three new emperors came and went, each lasting only months, each dying violently. Finally, to the astonishment of the snobs in Rome, Vespasian emerged the winner. Having four legions in his command had helped. Another virtue was that his two grown sons guaranteed an enduring succession. He did not venture home to Rome until the situation stabilised; in the last months there was bloody turmoil as his predecessor Vitellius clung on in power.
Flavius Sabinus, one of the most respected men in Rome, was Prefect of the City; he held that post for many years, even under the rival Vitellius. With the Empire and city suffering terribly, Sabinus struggled to clinch his brother’s bid for the throne, desperately brokering peace. Domitian found himself in a thrilling position, though much overshadowed by his uncle and with house arrest imposed by Vitellius.
As Vespasian’s troops marched through Italy towards Rome, Vitellius agreed to abdicate. Prematurely, Sabinus allowed exulting Flavian supporters to congregate outside his house. They were attacked by a furious mob of opponents. By that time, Vitellius was unwell and had no power to control this situation even if he had wanted to. Sabinus took refuge on the Capitol with a motley group of followers; he sent for his own sons and Domitian, who managed to evade his guards and reach the citadel.
Frantic, the Flavians barricaded themselves in. They used statues to block routes up the hill and threw roof tiles down on the Vitellian troops who surrounded them. It became a debacle. Unknown arsonists set fire to the Capitol buildings. Suddenly, everything had gone wrong for the Flavians; in a frantic race against time their army struggled to reach Rome to achieve a rescue. The Vitellians stormed the Capitol before the troops arrived. Sabinus was captured and killed; his mutilated body thrown on the Gemonian Stairs like a traitor’s.
Through the flames and smoke, chaos and mangled corpses, Domitian managed to evade the Vitellians who were hunting him down. As Vespasian’s son, he would have been at best a hostage, but he knew they wanted him dead.
A brave caretaker of the Temple of Jupiter concealed him in his hut through one terrifying night. Next morning, assisted by a loyal freedman, Domitian escaped down to the Campus where he mingled with bare-chested priests of Isis, dressed as one of their exotic number as they went in procession to the sound of sistrums. He made it across the river to the house of a schoolfriend, whose mother hid him. Only when the Flavian army arrived in Rome, two days later, was it safe to emerge and scramble to them. He gave a speech to the soldiers, who then acclaimed Domitian with the title of Caesar and carried him in triumph to his father’s house.
Heady moments followed. He appeared in the Senate, speaking for his father, and acquitted himself well. He handed out honours. He was courted by greybeards and sycophants alike. Women flung themselves at him; he lured one senator’s young wife — one of Corbulo’s daughters — to Pompey’s villa in the Alban Hills where he persuaded her to leave her husband for him.
But the events on the Capitol had affected him for life. His equilibrium was shaken. The sights and sounds of fire and mob violence, and his uncle’s ghastly fate, embedded themselves in his mind. From then on, Domitian trusted nobody and no situation. He had witnessed how good fortune could be snatched way. If the most senior and worthy men could end their lives torn limb from limb, what hope was there for anyone? At eighteen, having never held a military post, he was affected by this violence. His need for disguise and elusion that bleak night had taught him deep reserve, a personal wariness which he never again put off. Ten years later, the smell of the burnt temple on the Capitol was threatening to unman him.
He had to go up there. It was expected.
He stared as deferential vigiles produced protective boots and thick, hooded cloaks for the milling dignitaries. Someone must have hastily raided the cohorts’ stores for brand new boots. It would be unacceptable to push the illustrious corns of a consul into a pair that had been worn already by some horny-soled freedman stomping out sticky embers at a grain warehouse. Nice thought, though! As the Emperor’s brother, Domitian was provided with gear by slaves from the palace. He joked with an impassive dresser that a special battalion had charge of imperial disaster uniforms: National Emergency coveralls with delicious purple accents, boots with little gold wings on them for flying above catastrophes… Once kitted out himself, he coolly observed how the officers who were helping the others glanced at each other as they tried to advise the doddery old fools who now intended to go clambering over smoking ruins where there was still danger of collapse.
The Prefect of Vigiles gave a short, sensible safety lecture. Half the dignitaries were talking among themselves or wandering off. None of the great seemed to see the point of thick-soled boots, even though up on the Capitol the ground might be still red hot.
Domitian caught the Prefect’s eye and let a flicker of sympathy show. He had been taught to respect efficient men. After all, his down-to-earth father had viewed his role as emperor as merely doing an honest job. Vespasian also set an example of scoffing, in coarse language, at high-ranking droolers who had reached the limit of their competence but were still cluttering up the Senate.
Far too many introductions were made. A discreet official stood behind him, mentioning names so Domitian could greet people as if he remembered them. He made it plain he hated shaking hands, but merely inclined his head as long queues of officials paraded. However, he embraced the two consuls, because he knew Titus would have done so: mighty men sharing public grief for their damaged city. Titus would have freely wept on their togaed shoulders, but Domitian’s eyes stayed dry.
He reviewed the weary vigiles with respect for what the firemen had gone through. Their achievement in saving the main Forum and his father’s new amphitheatre deserved genuine thanks. A small number were presented to him while their Prefect read hastily scribbled accounts of individual bravery. Domitian made awards. Although in theory every honour needed the personal sanction of the absent Titus, his brother was permitted to make on-the-spot announcements of diplomas and cash gifts. Domitian brought it off with grace. He knew how to behave.
One man’s heroics caught his interest. The Prefect explained that this young fellow, one-eyed and hideously battle-scarred, had plucked a priest from certain death in front of the cult statues in the Temple of Jupiter. Domitian, who credited Jupiter with saving his own life on that terrible night on the Capitol, paid close attention. He seemed fascinated by the man’s scars too.
Later, the Prefect of Vigiles remembered this. By then the inspection party had snaked up the Gemonian Stairs to the heights, where they gasped at the ruined Temple and gasped again as they surveyed the destruction that stretched across the Field of Mars below. Lists of lost monuments were read out by a sombre works official. Then vigiles tribunes made themselves available to take questions. The senators all liked to think they were bright and well-informed. Some of their queries about how the fire had behaved and how the firemen tackled it were apt; some were stupid. After they had expressed horror over the tragedy, they began talking about rebuilding.
Classicus was on hand. He was secretary of finance to Titus; he normally stuck with the Emperor day and night, so Domitian wondered if Titus had sent him to spy on what happened today. If Domitian ever became emperor, this freedman would be the first retainer to go.
Classicus stated quickly that the Emperor would have to be consulted about costs. He had had no chance yet to ascertain how far Titus wanted to empty the Treasury and whether, given how generously he was already paying out after Vesuvius, he would contribute money of his own. Domitian, who was itching to involve himself but who had no remit, stayed silent but looked pinched.
As the VIPs pontificated, the troops were under orders to stick close and make sure none of the noble ones dithered into an unstable building or had half a column crack down on his head. Domitian had been frowning and withdrawn for a while. Suddenly he announced that he wanted to explore alone.
The City Prefect nudged the Prefect of Vigiles. This was an awkward breach of protocol. As a member of the imperial family, Domitian was entitled to bodyguards especially when he was representing his brother, but he had not asked and no Praetorian Guards had been arranged. It was still highly dangerous up here and no one who valued his job wanted to take responsibility for the young Caesar if he went off on his own. So the quick-thinking
