Even though they constantly lost out to him on refreshments, other members soon came to regard this Clodianus as their rock. He brought commonsense and clarity to what could all have been rather hysterical. Abascantus preened himself on his sound choice. (He overlooked the fact that his co-optee had been put forward in the first place by the Prefect, Casperius Aelianus.)
Once during a discussion, Abascantus caught a fly, crushing it between two fingers in mid air. It was a sign, should one be needed, of how sharp the chief secretary was. Nothing wrong with his reactions. Nothing squeamish there. As the freedman wiped his fingers clean on a napkin, he noticed the Praetorian shot him a fast gleam of admiration, the way someone would indicate ‘ Good catch! ’ on the move, while flinging beanbags at the gym. Even so, Abascantus always had a feeling that Vinius Clodianus viewed these proceedings with some sly undercurrent of satire.
For a long time that fly being caught was the most exciting thing that happened at their meetings.
31
It was comparatively quiet, the year many would call the Reign of Terror. Maybe that very quietness increased the fear. Nobody knew what was happening.
What’s he up to?
Who knows?
Rumours were everywhere.
Nonetheless, for domestic slaves buying leeks at a stall, for market-gardeners, for young men wrestling in a gymnasium, for toothless old folk dreaming in the sun, for small children trying to keep awake on uncomfortable outdoor benches while primary school teachers drearily intoned alphabets — and for their bored teachers — or for matrons having their hair dressed, most of the time nothing special happened. People who kept diaries would have found them dull reading afterwards.
No one with any sense did write a diary, in case it was ever held against them.
You never knew. That was the problem: doubt that festered and smelt like unnoticed spilt milk, all of the time. Everyone was clenching their buttocks in a permanent state of anxiety and the only people who did well out of that were apothecaries who sold greasy haemorrhoid ointments from discreet little booths down suburban side streets. For body-slaves who had to apply these suppositories to the inflamed rear ends of groaning masters, it was not such good news.
A good masseur could make a pile from fees and tips. Uncertain times caused psychosomatic bad backs. Hylus, the top masseur at the public baths that Vinius Clodianus liked, declared that an impacted disc was the signature symptom of political gloom.
Vinius had no problems with his spine; Hylus put this down to regular sex. Vinius smiled mysteriously so Hylus took that as affirmative. He knew when a client was much happier these days.
Booksellers were having a hard time. Statius had published his Thebeid two years earlier and it sank like a stone. (Not even the frankest critics told him that was because even as epics go, it was awful.) The first three books of his Silvae were now on sale, his occasional poetry. That little scroll struggled too, but then most of his friends and many members of the public had already heard him read the pieces. ‘The New Bath House of Claudius Etruscus’ held little interest for anyone except Claudius Etruscus, especially since the show-off freedman was not inviting the sweaty Roman public to enjoy his marble plunge pool and silver pipes, only his elite friends — the ones who had already sat through the poem at far too many dinner parties. Otherwise, Rutilius Gallicus was now not even old news but a forgotten man, and what was the point in praising his recovery from the nervous breakdown when he had since died of something else? An epitaph for an arena lion was limp; sceptics said the poem was so short, and weak, because Statius had shied away from saying this was the enormous lion killed by the unfortunate Glabrio when Domitian tried to polish him off. Statius chickened out. Still, he would not waste a poem he had started, so here were thirty rather soppy lines to the late Leo…
His friends expected free scrolls with florid inscriptions. Lucilla did buy one; she was thoughtful and supportive. Even she decided Statius was unworldly. When Gaius found the scroll hidden under a cushion, Lucilla was prepared to admit that, on being shown stylised verses entitled Forest Leaves, most readers would exit quickly from the bookshop and splurge their cash on street food.
‘Bright idea. While you work up an appetite reading how our Master and God graciously invited wonderful Statius to a Saturnalia party — free cheese puffs and belly dancers with big breasts; ooh how exciting! — I’ll nip out and fetch us a chicken supper.’
‘He does not specify the flirty-girls’ bustband size.’
‘Too rude. Make him too popular. This silly bugger describes your Earinus — ’
‘Not mine.’
‘Having his eunuch operation, without even saying “testicles”. The bum has no idea how to write a bestseller. He dreams of being read by an adoring minority in two thousand years’ time, when he should be putting loaves on the table now… Do you want a delicious Frontinian?’
‘Yes, please, dear heart.’
‘Any sides?’
‘Just a green salad and a kiss from you.’
‘Good news!’ chortled Gaius. ‘Kisses are this week’s special offer. Ask for one, get a hundred free.’
That was, thought Lucilla, slightly derivative of the poet Catullus although it must be accidental. Gaius would maintain no putrid poet suggested his lines, and Lucilla accepted that they came from his own heart.
Domitian was suffering a bad period, that much was known. His paranoia had flared up like a boil; the fear was that it would escalate with no remission. Full details of his illness were carefully concealed, because the illnesses of the great are privileged information for supposed national interest reasons.
‘I would have thought,’ groaned Gaius, ‘it was in the national interest to know if we are being governed by a maniac.’
He was having his own flare-up — of gloomy cynicism. Many of the Guards were in low spirits. They preferred to be protecting a ruler who set an example of splendid control, not a head-case. Some of the old hands were spending time in drinking dens remembering how much they had liked Titus.
Despite precautions, hints leaked out. People at court had overheard tantrums and slammed doors. They noticed how the palace slaves slunk along corridors keeping close to the wall, heads down and unwilling to be spoken to. Imperial freedmen were jumpy. The Empress never gave anything away, yet even she seemed even more hard-faced than usual.
In the rest of the Empire things seemed quiet. The bad result was that Domitian stayed in Italy therefore, either in Rome itself or at Alba or Naples or some other place too close for comfort. Some resort where the inhabitants thought he was marvellous (because the lower class never saw much of him) while the uppercrust (who did see him close up) were beginning to get itchy about hosting him on their patch.
There were occasional upsets. A tribe in Africa, the Nasamones, rebelled against brutal Roman tax gatherers. There were savage reprisals, but they fought back and invaded the Roman commander’s camp. Then, drunk on wine they had looted, the rebel tribe were wiped out. When details were reported, Domitian proudly announced, ‘I have forbidden the Nasamones to exist.’ Uncompromising words. Liberal minds were shocked.
Eventually new war loomed on the Danube. He enjoyed war, and it kept him occupied. Taking his time, absorbed in every detail, he was at his best. For once, his introverted character made him ideal. It combined his strange personal mixture of brooding with his talent for strong, obsessive planning. He was as good at second- guessing foreign tribes as at scrutinising perceived rivals in Rome; they were all his enemies. But nobody else could decide whether to be reassured or nervous. Which did make them nervous.
All his advisory council were agitated. ‘Nothing new,’ said Gaius. ‘But perhaps some of them may one day break out in spots and tackle him.’
‘Is that a hope, love?’
‘I’m a Guard. I would have to give naughty boys a reprimand.’
‘Since it would mean burning off their goolies and putting their heads on spikes in the Forum, they may hold back.’
