Otherwise, unless imperial bureaucrats became completely decrepit, they never expected to leave; their duty to the emperor was for life. That sometimes meant their life ended prematurely. Nero famously disposed of his predecessor’s chief minister, the legendary manipulator and plutocrat Narcissus, by making him go into exile ‘for his health’. Understood by everyone as an order to commit suicide, Narcissus swiftly took the hint.
So, Abascantus had unexpectedly retired. What, Gaius wondered, would happen to the committee now?
He went next door, intending to ask Casperius Aelianus. He had another surprise. The Prefect’s office was empty, his clerical staff moping in corridors, frightened and miserable about their futures. In the latest cull of officials, Domitian had also decided to terminate the ten-year unblemished career of his Praetorian Prefect. ‘My Emperor, right or wrong’ had failed to shield the commander from suspicion: he, too, had been dropped.
Casperius Aelianus went quietly. Keeping his dignity, he made no complaint. Prefects had been replaced before; he knew there was no stain on his record. Even so, he had been popular. Men were loyal to him. Around the Praetorian Camp the musty whiff of imperial ingratitude now hummed, as if there was a problem with the drains.
Gaius had known the man since his own release from Dacian captivity. He owed Casperius Aelianus his move to the headquarters staff. He found such a change without warning hurt like a kick in the guts. He was as loyal to the Emperor as the next Guard, but he reeled for a moment, uncertain where this left him.
32
The following year Domitian awarded himself his seventeenth consulship. Statius wrote a poem.
Oh go on, surprise me!
I knew you would mock.
Grovelling bastard.
There were always two consuls. This was a Roman measure to avoid abuse of power, though it was incapable of curbing a deluded emperor. Once an annual appointment, there was a faster turnover nowadays to give promotion to more; one year, clearing a backlog, Domitian had appointed a bumper series of eleven. Hardly time to read the files before moving on.
Alongside him now in the position of honour, Domitian appointed his cousin Flavius Clemens, husband of Flavia Domitilla. Domitian’s own consulship was notional, a few days only, but Clemens was listed to serve until April. If Statius ever contemplated a poem to celebrate this public appointment, he thought better of it. For Clemens and Domitilla, it was the beginning of the end.
Lucilla became concerned. Whenever she visited, she could see Flavia Domitilla feared the consulship. She lost weight and became abstracted. From the moment the couple had been informed, when the list of consuls was published the previous autumn, Domitilla had believed they were fated. There was nothing they could do. Clemens could not refuse. No Roman turned down a consulship unless he was gravely ill, let alone when he was to hold the role at the same time as the Emperor. It was announced. It was inescapable. And it boded ill.
When Domitian became emperor fifteen years before, his first partner as consul had been Clemens’ elder brother, Flavius Sabinus. Keeping it in the family. That was the Flavian system, the way Vespasian and his own elder brother operated. Maybe Sabinus upset Domitian by his presumption he was the imperial heir. Perhaps he flaunted his hopes. He was the senior family member and events had not yet shown how dangerous Domitian could be. But Domitian executed Sabinus without offering a reason, immediately he gave up his post.
Later, Domitian repeated the pattern: Arrecinus Clemens, in-law of Titus and close to Julia: consul, then killed. Then Glabrio, allegedly impious and plotting revolution: first the honour, then lion-fighting, exile and death. Next, the stoics, Rusticus and the younger Helvidius: both consuls, both tried for treason and killed. Aelius Lamia, Domitia’s first husband: the same grim sequence.
Who would seek this supreme Roman honour now? Especially if Domitian could convince himself in his dark private ramblings that a consul had an eye on his throne?
Flavius Clemens would never put himself out to usurp. Unqualified for anything, he was despicably lazy. He had held no military or civic posts, content to enjoy his position as a fortunate member of the ruling family. He accepted the benefits without the responsibilities. It was a far cry from the Flavians’ origins, dedicating themselves to acquiring not just position and money, but honour. Vespasian and his brother Sabinus both seized every rank, packed with political energy and driven by a genuine belief that lifetime service to Rome was the highest goal.
Clemens accepted the status they won as his birthright. Vespasian and his brother would have been scathing. They would have shaken him up, too, in the way Domitian had been compelled to live with his father, in order to control inappropriate behaviour and to be trained in statecraft. Instead, as long as Lachne and Lara had served the family, as long as Lucilla herself had been associated with them, Clemens and his wife Domitilla had led an existence on the fringe of the imperial family that had little meaning or worth. They were only ever respected for who they were, never for anything Clemens achieved, for he achieved nothing.
Conversely, they did no harm. Flavia Domitilla, the daughter of Domitian’s long-dead sister, was pleasant and loved by those who knew her.
Lucilla had groomed this woman’s hair for over fifteen years now, weaving her coronets of curls since helping Lachne. Rank distanced them, yet tending Flavia Domitilla was a routine of her own existence. They exchanged little gifts at Saturnalia and on birthdays. They spoke frankly of ailments, Lucilla grumbling about the pains in her neck and shoulders that were a consequence of her profession with its frequent standing and working with raised arms. Saying she served the Emperor’s niece had undoubtedly helped Lucilla build her wider clientele.
Domitilla was now almost the only person Lucilla dealt with who had known Lachne and Lara. She would occasionally reminisce about them, a kindness which showed she understood their significance to Lucilla.
Lucilla knew the Flavians generally treated their women well. Vespasian’s mother and grandmother had brought status and money to the comparatively undistinguished provincial men they married. Both women had been astute and forthright. Vespasian had been partly brought up by his grandmother on her estate at Cosa on the north-west coast of Italy; everyone knew he had liked to return there. His mother was another strong character; she was said to have bullied him into public life when he showed reluctance. So, although their women seemed to stay in the background publicly, that was from choice. They were traditional. That had never meant subservient.
Domitilla was an only child. She had lost her mother when she was very young and whoever her father was, he faded from the scene or died too. Like her Uncle Domitian and Cousin Julia, she was brought up by others in the family. She saw no reason to treat her uncle deferentially, but sniffed at his grandiose ideas and deplored his conceit with eye-rolling glances.
It was inevitable Domitilla would be married early, and to another cousin, Clemens. Despite what people said about the repeated intermarriage of such close relations, she became the mother of seven children, for which in Roman society a woman was greatly honoured. After producing her third, the Augustan laws gave her the right to run her own affairs without a guardian although, as far as Lucilla could see, this made little difference in practice. She was never aware of Flavia Domitilla possessing estates of her own; if she did, her husband probably assumed nominal control but left everything to managers. Clothes and jewels were suitably abundant for a niece of the reigning emperor who appeared with him at court and in the imperial box at festivals. Her hair, of course, was immaculate. Lucilla’s bills for this were slow to be honoured, though she was eventually paid.
Even when the couple lived at the palace in association with Domitian, Flavia Domitilla had her own household. Her staff were loyal — as Lucilla herself was loyal — though sometimes snobbish. Tatia Baucylla, the hard-working nurse of the seven children, was prone to describing her charges as ‘the great-grandchildren of the Divine Vespasian’, adding much less proudly that Clemens was their father, and immediately reminding people that their mother was the Divine Vespasian’s granddaughter. Stephanus, the steward, called himself ‘freedman of Domitilla’. Lachne always did the same, Lucilla remembered. She was herself Domitilla’s freedwoman, come to that.
So, Flavia Domitilla was now in her mid-forties, discreetly menopausal, facing serious fears as Domitian turned his neurotic attention on her husband. She had never particularly enjoyed court life, preferring the country existence when the Flavians returned to their Sabine homes in the Apennines. True, they owned grand country villas set in well-run estates, but there they lived out Italian summers with long wooden tables set in the open air for
