his suspicions. Validate his fear.
After a curt dismissal, the unhappy cornicularius marched off. He felt the Emperor follow him with another baleful stare. Norbanus remained behind, probably so Domitian could order him to discipline and destroy Clodianus. One of the slaves who assembled within call slipped past. Domitian had asked for a note tablet. He would make his own list.
That stare said Vinius Clodianus would be on it.
Domitian believed that he would die on September the eighteenth, at the fifth hour.
The previous day, someone gave him a gift of apples; he ordered them to be served tomorrow, saying darkly, ‘If I am spared!’
‘He is like some miserable uncle that nobody wants to sit beside at Saturnalia!’ Lucilla complained to Gaius. As Gaius remarked, at least it gave the conspirators a diary date.
‘The last day to choose is when he expects it,’ Lucilla demurred. Gaius smiled quietly. He was abstracted, still burdened by that meeting with Domitian, anxious for himself, more anxious for Lucilla. ‘Oh Gaius, surely we must hope to catch him by surprise!’
‘If he anticipates an attack, he may accept it. “ This is the prophecy, your time has come, give up now. ” Then killing him becomes much easier.’
Gaius thought the inexperienced Stephanus would falter. Stephanus might look strong, but a palace freedman had no martial training. They had brought in a gladiator to instruct him in basic attack moves. Parthenius produced one of Domitian’s own professionals, who helped them in return for the promise of freedom and presumably a large cash payment. Gaius never knew the fighter’s name. He had no great faith in what the gladiator could achieve with Stephanus in just a few days of secret working out.
Stephanus had bandaged his forearm as if he had some injury. He wore an obvious sling, like a hypochondriac, walking about the palace that way until everyone had seen him. By the end of a week, the Guards grew bored with searching him for concealed weapons. That was when Stephanus hid a dagger under the bandages.
When Gaius confessed his fears that Domitian was composing written details of the plot, Lucilla decided to do something; she pretended she had to see the Empress.
Domitia Longina rarely asked for her these days, not since Flavia Domitilla was exiled; the Empress was probably afraid Lucilla would want her to beg Domitian to let his niece return. Lucilla would not waste her breath. As far as she knew, Domitia had never once tried to influence a political decision.
Lucilla guessed where Domitian would be keeping his notes. Like innocent children, emperors tucked secret things under the pillows in their bedrooms. At the palace, she used her skills. She made friends with one of the naked boys who flitted about the court, generally up to mischief. She sent him in to look. Rather than be spotted lurking suspiciously, she told the lad she would come back for anything he found, after she had paid her respects to their imperial mistress.
When she entered the room, everyone was discussing Domitian’s fears for tomorrow. Apparently, he kept exclaiming dramatically, ‘There will be blood on the moon in Aquarius!’ Domitia retorted, in that case she would make sure she was away seeing friends.
The Empress allowed Lucilla to kiss the rouged regal cheek, then Lucilla began inspecting what Domitia’s maids had done to her hair, tweaking her coronet fussily.
‘You look pregnant! Do you know whose it is?’
‘Yes, Madam. He will be a good father.’
‘Well, that’s lucky.’
The inevitable happened. The boy had found Domitian’s note tablet. He brought it to Lucilla. Domitia spotted him. She demanded the tablet. She read it.
Holding up a mirror behind the Empress’s head, Lucilla craned to look over her shoulder. There, in Domitian’s fervent handwriting were packed columns of names, some of them accurate.
Domitia was silent for a long moment. Expensive jewels rose and fell with her strained breathing. She slammed shut the double-sided note tablet, almost crushing her own fingers with their burden of heavy antique rings.
‘The appalling little thief has no idea what this contains. Luckily I was shown it.’ She grasped the tablet firmly. Standing beside her chair, Lucilla stayed motionless, expecting the worst.
The Empress turned her head and looked straight at her. Domitia Longina of the compressed lips and uncompromising attitude murmured scornfully, ‘He will not be deterred by losing a few notes!’ Then, as if to herself: ‘These people need to hurry up, if they really mean business.’ Suddenly she passed the note tablet across. ‘Flavia Lucilla! Your man is a Praetorian?’ She seemed bored now. ‘Show this to him, will you? I presume he will know what to do about it.’
Astonished, Lucilla nodded faintly. Domitia turned immediately to someone else, closing her association with the tablet.
The Empress must be not unaware of the plot, not unaware that the names she had read were significant. She knew the implications if she told the plotters how close they were to detection.
Of course there were dangers to Domitia herself in an assassination. When Caligula was killed by his Guards, his wife Caesonia was also brutally murdered, and the brains of their infant child dashed out. Domitia had no reason to think the new conspirators intended to deploy only minimum violence. Domitia had watched her husband’s deterioration at close quarters. Had she decided there was no hope of recovery and his exit was inevitable? Cynically, if she survived her husband, that would be her release from misery too. People thought she was terrified he intended harm to her.
Or maybe Corbulo’s daughter chose to act in the national interest: that noblest of motives for any Roman, man or woman.
Lucilla lost no time in informing her colleagues they must act immediately.
The hunt for the next emperor assumed desperate urgency.
The last man they approached was Cocceius Nerva. He might be sympathetic because he had had a nephew, Salvius Cocceianus, who had also been related to the Emperor Otho, a rival to the Flavians back in the Year of the Four Emperors. Domitian had executed Salvius for honouring his Uncle Otho’s birthday.
Nerva was a long-term politician, now in his sixties, looking frail and some thought faintly sinister. Childless, and not particularly liked, he had little experience of provincial government or the army. He was a stalwart Flavian, but conversely this might help smooth over any backlash because he would be acceptable to Flavian supporters. In the course of a chequered history, he had helped Nero put down the Piso conspiracy with much harshness; it was said he also heavy-handedly helped Domitian’s retribution process after the Saturninus Revolt. At least, said Gaius dryly, it meant Nerva knew how plots worked.
Everyone, including Nerva himself, acknowledged that because of his age he was a stop-gap. This would allow a second look at the succession, time to interest a worthy successor. For Nerva, his life was drawing to a close, so why not take a risk?
He was in Domitian’s advisory council, the amici, one of Caesar’s friends. Not that that stopped him. Nerva agreed to do it.
The eighteenth of September came. Domitian spent the morning in court, giving cases his usual pedantic attention.
At noon he adjourned. He was intending to take a bathe and his usual siesta. He demanded to know the time. Attendants assured him it was already the sixth hour, knowing his dread of the fifth. Parthenius then mentioned discreetly that a man had something significant to show him, in his private suite. Obsessed with threats, the Emperor was all too keen to hear what this person had to say. Parthenius controlled access to the Emperor. He trusted Parthenius to vet admissions.
Domitian fearlessly set off alone. A perfectionist, he always wanted to be in sole control of anything vital.
In his bedroom, he found Stephanus, still with his arm bandaged. He handed Domitian a document. As Domitian intently perused this, Stephanus produced the concealed dagger.
At Plum Street, Gaius and Lucilla had spent the hours after breakfast together in their apartment. Their mood was quiet, sober though resigned. They took a special pleasure in the routines of this morning, as if it might be their last time together.
