little huddled groups and hung around discussing what had been said that afternoon, instead of hurrying off to the barracks and thence to the wine-shops, Domitian said, 'All the same, they're not content. He should have given them money, or at least promised a substantial sum.'
'I think you're right. They're remembering that boast, 'I choose my soldiers, I do not buy them.''
'Yes,' Domitian said, 'it's not something I'll forget when my time comes.'
I thought him, again, a foolish fellow. Why should he suppose he had a time that would come?
XIII
A bitter and scornful letter from Tacitus: if only there was as much sense as style in what he writes!
He upbraids me for my characterisation of Galba. Galba, he tells me, was a man who belonged to a more virtuous age. In our degenerate time it was his virtues rather than his vices which destroyed him: his old-fashioned inflexibility and his excessive sternness. And so on. The truth is that Tacitus himself has a view of Rome which was out of date centuries ago. He would play Cato charging the great Scipio with treason because he introduced Greek culture to Rome.
In any case, I have my own opinion concerning antique virtue, which is that it was deficient in generosity and humanity, rooted in fear of the gods who, in truth, no more concern themselves with the fate of men than with the leaves that are torn from the trees by autumn gales; it was narrow and harsh in temper, even to the point of brutality.
Moreover, even Galba understood that the great frame of Empire had rendered Republican institutions inadequate for its government.
Yet this letter disturbed me, more than for some days I dared to admit to myself. Is it because I am no longer a Roman?
I snarled at my woman, betook myself to a wine-shop, and soaked my questioning spirit in liquor. There was a German boy serving whom I had not seen before. Was it because he appeared modest and shy that I commanded a chamber and had the woman of the inn send him to me? Or was it his so red lips and dark troubled eyes that aroused my brief demanding lust? I stripped him of his tunic, ran my hands over his thin body, felt his revulsion, and compelled him to submit. He cried a little when I gave him gold.
'You would not understand,' I said. 'I am searching for something which I lost many years ago.'
His name is Balthus. His arms were so thin I could have cracked them. There was a delicacy to his behaviour that intensified my lust and brought me shame.
Tacitus denies that Galba took Icelus as his lover. He was not that sort of man, he says. Does he not realise that everyone is more complicated in his nature than he would have the world know? Does he not realise that if we knew the thoughts and desires of our companions, we would shun all society?
Balthus is in no way like Titus. But, without Titus, would I have arranged to have him again next week? He was born a slave, I a free man and a Roman noble. But what is freedom, what slavery, when the passions are aroused? Yet I was almost perfunctory when it came to the moment. Afterwards I felt a rare tenderness because I had wronged him.
And actually it was like what I came to feel for Domatilla when I knew we had, without willing it, so deeply wronged each other. I didn't tell Tacitus all I might have said of Piso. I might for instance have mentioned that there were those who said then that the young Piso, only exiled on account of his complicity in his uncle's plot against Nero, was thought by some to have been among those who laid information against the conspirators.
I have no proof that he did so. What I do know is that Lucan distrusted him and expressed jealousy of him. He told me that this was because they had quarrelled over a woman. It may be so. Piso however was never otherwise known to have taken any interest in women. Nor in boys either; I can be sure of that because the first or second occasion I met him at the baths, I embarked on a little flirtation with him – entirely on account of his beauty and before I had taken note of his mean mouth – and he rebuffed me coldly. When I told Titus of this, for in those days I told him everything, or near everything, he was greatly amused and assured me it was common knowledge that Piso was addicted to masturbation because he could never love or trust anyone except himself. Lucan's story he refused to believe.
I shrink from giving my account of the 15th January. Wine is a comforter, wine and my Greek-Scythian woman, Araminta. I rely on her, she satisfies me, she arouses no feeling in me; and that is a species of, at least, contentment.
XIV
Flavius Sabinus sent to us before dawn, advising us to keep the house that day. Domatilla and the aunt added their pleas to this counsel, which was undoubtedly good. But Domitian and I were young and bold. At any rate each was eager to impress his courage upon the other; and we would not obey.
What is strange is that we never questioned why Flavius Sabinus should have so advised us. It was not till later that I realised he must have been privy to the conspiracy.
Not, of course, that we knew there was any such thing brewing, or not precisely, or what form it might take. It was rather that the hum of rumour in the city was irresistibly disturbing. Every day for the last week more reports of the mutiny of the German legions had excited the Forum. Though it was impossible that they could have advanced even to the northern Alps, men talked as if they might be in the city any day. The price of bread and wine and oil soared as traders took advantage of the public alarm.
Then a second message came from Flavius: there had, he said, been talk the previous evening of seizing Otho, and putting him to death. Otho, he added, was desperate. He had been heard to say that he might as well be killed by an enemy in battle as by his creditors in the Forum. The streets, Flavius wrote, were no place today for us.
So naturally, dismissing such fears, we sallied forth. I have to say that Domitian showed no sign of cowardice that day.
We learned in the Forum that the Emperor was sacrificing in the Temple of Apollo. The word was that the omens were bad. The priest told him the entrails had a sinister colour, that an enemy threatened and that he should stay at home that day. Everyone in the Forum seemed to know of this. 'Have they arrested Otho, then?' a fat equestrian called out.
'Not yet, but the Senate are about to meet in order to declare him a public enemy.'
'But that's wrong,' another cried. 'What harm has Otho ever done? He's a true friend of the Roman People, that's for sure.'
'Galba, Otho, Piso – what difference will it make to the likes of us?' the keeper of the tavern into which we had retired demanded. 'The question is only, who will keep the German legions from marching on the city?'
'They say Piso has already set off to negotiate with them – with full power to conclude a bargain.'
'Piso? He's a long streak of piss, if you ask me,' said another. 'Conclude a bargain? Him? Pardon me if I fart.'
In fact, as we now know, Otho himself had been at the Temple of Apollo, and had seen and heard what the priest said. There he had been approached by friends who told him that his architect and the contractors were waiting for him. So he excused himself, saying that he was thinking of buying a properly, but, being unsure of its condition, had ordered a survey. I suppose this was a joke as well as a deception. He was certainly thinking of taking over a property.
Why Otho had attended the ceremony in the Temple of Apollo I do not pretend to guess. By doing so he had put himself in great danger. But it may be that, uncertain whether the troops would indeed rise in his support, he thought it safer to disguise his disaffection by attending. For, if he had not done so, and if the troops had refused to move in accordance with the prompting of his agents, then his absence, being remarked on, would have been taken as evidence of disloyalty. But it may simply be that the gamble of attendance appealed to his peculiar sense of humour; he was ever a gambler.
