‘This was our home.’
‘Wherever we both are, that’s home.’
Gaius gave Lucilla his discharge diploma. Ordinarily the tablets were signed by Domitian; using his authority as cornicularius, Gaius had had these completed and Lucilla did not ask him if the signature was forged.
‘Released from my oath.’ She understood.
They clasped hands. Each thanked the other for the life they had had together. Neither wept, though both were close to tears.
Gaius was going to the palace to see what had transpired; he had a plan for them to vanish safely afterwards. If anything happened to him, Lucilla would have to manage on her own. There was money. They had plenty, much already sent on ahead.
‘I am coming with you.’
‘No. Stay here.’
‘You never give me orders!’ One hand on her stomach, Lucilla allowed him a let-out. ‘You fear for the child.’
‘For the child, yes — but above all, I am afraid for you, Lucilla. Wait for me here until an hour before the vehicle prohibition lifts. If I have not returned, you must leave at once without me. Think of the baby, think of me and how I love you. Then go and be safe.’
Lucilla gave her promise. Gaius kissed her, came back and kissed her one more time, and left. He was dressed as a Praetorian, in a red tunic, soldier’s boots and military belt, and wearing his sword.
As he walked down the Vicus Longus, he was struck by the normality of Rome. Nor was there anything extraordinary about his own behaviour: a tall man with long legs, walking with a slow tread to his workplace. Though approaching forty, he had kept up the twenty-mile training marches; he was strong and solid. Not yet forty: still plenty of time yet to cause havoc.
It was towards the end of summer, but days were long and the sky cloudless. In September, the sunny side of Roman streets was still uncomfortably hot, though the shade felt clammy. Lines of washing and bedcovers flung over balcony rails to air hung motionless. When, heavy with his mission, the cornicularius sucked in a deep sigh, the air was warm in his lungs.
The fifth hour was when most shops drew across their shutters. People were at lunch; the sixth hour would be their rest period. Few people were about. In this traditionally quiet time, Rome basked. Shabby dogs curled against house walls, asleep. From behind upper floor window shutters came the sound of an unhappy baby mithering. Further along, Clodianus smelt fried food and heard the routine knock of cutlery on pottery.
He turned left, to reach the Forum at the western end, marching faster as he passed the Arch of Titus; he was still relaxed but purposeful. With the House of the Vestals on his right, he crossed the uneven ancient slabs of the Sacred Way then climbed up the steep approach to the Palatine. All the Guards on duty knew him. They nodded in their cornicularius without question.
Inside the palace, there was no Praetorian presence. Secundus must have given the right orders.
Everything in the public areas seemed otherwise normal. Visitors, in Rome for the Games, milled around in the massive state rooms immediately beyond the grand entrance. The cornicularius pushed through the crowds and kept going.
The architect had designed this complex to astonish, delight and confuse people. Knowing it would be his last ever visit, Clodianus took more notice than usual but he did not slow down, apart from when he took care on a flight of steps. Knowing his way around, as all Guards did, he entered the imperial family’s private quarters, exquisite suites nesting deep within the more public areas. He saw no servants in the corridors.
He went quickly to the agreed rendezvous. Parthenius was there, among a small group of others. With them was Nerva, a good-looking elderly senator, who had crinkled hair above a triangular face and a gentle manner. No spare flesh on him. He looked as if he was wetting himself with terror. Clodianus recognised another man as the consul, Caesius Fronto. Fronto looked calm, though keyed-up.
Parthenius gave him a breathless update. Domitian and Stephanus were locked in; Parthenius had arranged locked doors to keep out attendants. The combatants had been closeted for a long time, too long. Noises suggested that they were still fighting, with Domitian very much alive.
Clodianus cursed. He was not surprised by what he heard. Without hesitation, he took over.
He left Parthenius fanning Nerva, who had almost collapsed with terror. They had always had a secondary plan in case Stephanus failed. Clodianus took Entellus, the secretary of petitions, with Sigerius, a junior chamberlain. Parthenius sent one of his freedmen, Maximus. The gladiator who had tried to train Stephanus tagged along.
All the doors to the private suite were still locked. Screaming was audible inside. Two voices.
Clodianus could have crashed in, using a shoulder, but he chose the quiet method. He had taken a key from Parthenius. That way, once they reached the bedroom, his arrival went almost unnoticed during the crucial first moment.
He assessed the scene: a mess. A total bloody mess. But retrievable.
Domitian and Stephanus were grappling on the bedroom floor. Both looked exhausted. Stephanus had stabbed Domitian in the groin. There was blood, blood everywhere. The Emperor had grabbed the dagger with his hands; his fingers were lacerated. The dagger was lying a long way from where they were now.
Stephanus had facial wounds. Domitian had tried to gouge out his eyes. Stephanus must have been stabbed too at some point; his condition looked critical.
Someone else was there, someone who should not have been. Crouching petrified was the long-haired boy who tended Domitian’s personal gods in a bedroom shrine. Palpitating with terror, the Lares boy had frozen beside the massive bed. The Emperor must have screamed for him to bring the knife he kept under its scented, silken pillows. A scabbard had skittered across the marble. All the boy was holding was a pommel with its blade removed: again, Parthenius’ work.
Attendants loyal to Domitian were battering at other doors. Time had run out.
Armed with daggers by Parthenius, the men who came in with Clodianus moved in and tackled Domitian. Entellus, Sigerius, Maximus stabbed him, one after another, a further seven times. Still, he refused to die.
The squad stood back, shaking their heads at Domitian’s resilience. The freedmen were cool enough; they did well. Only the gladiator had no heart for it. Elsewhere in the imperial suite, doors abruptly crashed inwards. There were shouts; people approaching. Clodianus signalled the others to make themselves scarce. They disappeared, leaving a swathe of bloody footprints. Stephanus stayed, too badly hurt to escape yet struggling again to come at Domitian.
Attendants burst in. Making a concerted effort, they pulled Stephanus away from Domitian and killed the steward. Fair enough. It was always convenient if a murderer was finished off at the scene. No messy trial, one neat culprit to be blamed. You could almost wonder cynically if Parthenius had planned that.
Parthenius came into the room.
Domitian was gasping grotesquely, and still snaking sluggishly around the floor. Seeing a Praetorian, Clodianus, his protege, he desperately tried to speak. Clodianus gestured to the others to stay back. He heard Parthenius give calm orders to the servants. That still left the problem.
What was your thinking when you involved yourself?
He was going to die anyway…
Clodianus trod carefully across the floor. Astonishing how far one small drop of blood could spread, as it flattened on the marble in a fine spray. Astonishing how much other gore from the two combatants had spurted, pooled and jellied. Above one glistening, bloodstained area flies already circled with morbid fascination.
Domitian was now nearly gone. His eyelids drooped, probably no longer seeing anything. Impossible to say whether he knew this man standing above him, or realised what his final assailant was about to do.
Without a word, Clodianus drew his sword. He knelt beside the Emperor and thrust it in hard. The flesh closed and gripped his blade, but he twisted it out with the savage pull that legionaries used when despatching an enemy: a second wrench that made the original blow certain.
He did not need to look. Domitian was now dead.
Clodianus pulled off his red tunic, hauling it past his belt and sword scabbard. He wiped the blood from his sword, cleaning it thoroughly, sheathed it and tossed the wet garment away. Underneath he wore another tunic, like a civilian. As he walked past Parthenius, he met the chamberlain’s eyes and nodded. Mutual respect passed
