be made by the legions. That is why I turned away from an aristocratic conspiracy. It's the wrong way to go about things, if we seek stability. Don't look like that. None of this is over your head.' I watched a lizard skim up the wall of the terrace.
'My mother's father,' I said, 'was cousin to the Emperor Tiberius. She always says he would have liked to restore the Republic'
'If I crushed that lizard with a rock,' Titus said, 'could you restore it to life?'
'I shouldn't think so, except by magic, if such magic is to be found…'
'Even Tiberius discovered that the Republic was as dead as that lizard would be then.' 'If the Emperor is to be made elsewhere than in Rome,' I said, 'then whoever commands the best legions will wear the purple. How many legions has your father, Titus?' Very few. At present.'
'So there's not much chance of him becoming Emperor, and then you succeeding him,' I said. 'Rather a pity. You'd make a wonderful Emperor.' 'I'm glad you think so, too.'
'Well, naturally. And if you were Emperor, or even heir to the Empire, then I could hope to restore the fortunes of my family, couldn't I?' 'It would be my first concern,' Titus said. 'I think we should sleep on that.' 'Sleep?' You may dismiss this conversation, Tacitus, as a sort of verbal love-making, to excite us both. As indeed it did, very pleasingly. I can understand why you should do so. I was only a boy, and Titus was scarcely a grown man, though older, as he reminded me, than Octavian Caesar was when he embarked on the great adventure that in time made him Augustus and Master of the World. But you would be mistaken. Oh, I admit that Titus was showing off, to impress me. But there was more to it than that. He had sniffed the wind, and I am certain now that during this visit to Rome, when he had talked at length with his uncle, the Prefect of the City, and been admitted to at least the fringes of a company of disaffected nobles, he had caught a glimpse of his future. He had seen – what I could not then have credited – that his father Vespasian, however lowly his birth and comparatively humble his present position, could not be excluded from the struggle for Empire which he foresaw. Vespasian was, after all, a general whom the soldiers trusted; and there were few such left. And before Titus left Rome, to return to his father, he had done two things: he had taken soundings and estimated the strength and purpose of the opposition to Nero; and he had commissioned me to send him reports of what I learned of happenings in the city. When I protested that I was still a boy and therefore unlikely to learn of great events anything more than was the gossip of the market-place, he smiled and said, 'I think better of you than that.' He even taught me a simple cipher in which to write to him. So you see he was serious.
IV
There are things I choose not to write to my friend Tacitus. I did not, for instance, send all that last letter, but only an edited version of the first part. Nor could I reveal the nature of my congress with Titus, which still returns to me in dreams wherein I cross the threshold of the perfection of all physical delights before clouds roll up and all is lost to memory.
Then there is at least one element in my relations with Domitian which I cannot decide whether I dare recount. That it is germane is certain. But the incident doing me so little credit is one which I am loth to unfold. More of it in this notebook, perhaps, subsequently. It relates to Domatilla, sister of Titus and Domitian, a year younger than the latter. If I was even to drop her name in this context into my narrative, Tacitus would quiver like a hunting-dog that has scented game. Why is it that puritans like Tacitus, and indeed Domitian too, are so excited by a whiff of sexual scandal, and take so prurient and inquisitive an interest in the sexual activities of others, especially when they are what is termed 'deviant'? In Tacitus' case, doubtless because he has enjoyed so little sex himself. Domitian too perhaps? He talked much of 'bed-wrestling'; how much was wishful talk I never knew. Tacitus can't believe that Domitian was a puritan like himself. But then, my friend, though a master of language, is deficient in the knowledge of men; he has no understanding of what Greeks call psychology.
I have so little now to occupy me it is no wonder that, gazing on this sullen wind-whipped sea, past scenes move in the stage-set of my memory. Obedient to Titus, I now began to frequent the new baths on the Campus Martius, which were given the name of Nero's, though everyone knew that they had actually been commissioned by his minister Burrus, since murdered by imperial command. I went there at the hour favoured by young nobles, among whom I belonged by birth if not fortune. Naturally, it wasn't long before I attracted attention.
(It amused me by the way to remind Tacitus in my last letter of my youthful beauty. He looked like a scraggy crowling himself.)
Among my admirers was the poet Lucan. He approached me one afternoon as I reclined on a bench in the palaestra after my bath, and at once launched himself into a long speech of which I cannot remember a word, though he was certainly voluble. But his eyes were more eloquent still. It was clear that he had concluded from my attitude that I was in search of an admirer. 'You're a dancer, aren't you?' he said. 'I've seen you at the theatre…'
I allowed him to continue some time in this fancy, neither confirming nor denying his words, and favouring him with a smile that was friendly rather than inviting.
At last, when he had exhausted his store of flattery – for the time being only, since I have rarely known anyone with such a flow of words – and had made it quite clear what he wanted of me, I told him my name, and was rewarded, as I had expected, with a flush of embarrassment. To mistake a Claudian for a professional catamite was, at least in those days, a social blunder of the first order.
But Lucan was resourceful. He collected himself quickly, changing his words, though still singing them to the same tune. I was impressed. Only the thought of Titus prevented me from responding with the ardour my new friend so clearly sought.
I parried his attack, knowing that nothing is so desirable as a boy who protects his virtue and yet shows no sign of being offended by attempts to undermine it.
Lucan, accustomed, on account of good looks, self-confidence and literary reputation, to easy conquests, was enthralled by my resistance and redoubled his efforts to seduce me.
Discovering that his physical charms were not sufficient for his purpose, and that not even his sublime eloquence could persuade me to share his bed, he rashly sought to win me over by admitting me to his secret world in order to excite me by making me aware of his importance. So he dropped hints that he was engaged in a great and dangerous enterprise. I smiled and said he would be wiser to tell me nothing of it. I was only a boy, I reminded him, and had no concern with such matters. Wouldn't it be better if he recited to me some more of the great poem he was writing? I would appreciate that more; literature, I said, fluttering my eyelashes, was more interesting to me than politics. Besides, politics belonged to the Republic which he invoked so marvellously in his verse. There could be no politics now that we lived under the despotism of Empire.
My indifference spurred him on to ever greater imprudence. I might flatter him as a poet. That was not what he wanted. Or rather it was not enough for him. I daresay, if I had yielded, I would not have been enough either. He was, I see now, a man of that unhappy sort whose every success serves to sharpen their innate dissatisfaction. Such types are more common than you might suppose. I should know. It is, or was, my type also.
Lucan was eaten up with pride of birth. Yet he was actually more notable for the eminence of recent connections, such as his uncle Seneca, than for his more distant ancestors. He was after all, Spanish by birth, not a true Roman at all, a descendant of some younger son who had established himself in Spain – Cordoba, I believe – seeking in the provinces what was denied him in Rome. Perhaps it was simply because Lucan was what I then thought of, scornfully, as a colonial, that he was so eager to impress on me his sense of the greatness of his family. I smiled, and removed his hand from my thigh.
'But,' I said, 'your poetry will make you immortal. In that case what do your ancestors matter?'
He didn't care for that response, which indicates that he was not a true poet perhaps, since almost every poet I have known – and in my time I have been plagued with whole tribes of the creatures -has thrilled at the thought of immortality, and been ready to swear that the taste of future generations must be markedly superior to that of today.
But Lucan, lacking self-knowledge, saw himself as a great aristocrat, who threw off poetry with a negligent ease. It was something he did with style, but it didn't matter to him, except in as much as he acquired repute by his verses. He did not – perhaps it is needless to say – seek to impress other poets and critics, for he despised
