The practice,' he said, 'of making boys eunuchs revolts me. I am preparing an edict declaring that castration is a capital offence.
'Nothing,' he said, 'that the Divine Augustus achieved was more important than the reformation of morality. Don't you agree?' 'I'm aware that he attempted it. I'm not so sure of his success.'
'That schoolmaster – Democritos – who so abused us… I'm having him sought out. I haven't yet decided how to put him to death. Whipping? That would be appropriate. Would that please you?'
'It's a long time ago,' I said. 'He must be an old man now. What does it matter?'
'It matters to me.' He gave me a quick dark glance, and then looked away.
'You're an offender yourself,' he said. 'A criminal, an adulterer. You've been bedding my sister Domatilla. I won't have it. Under the Lex Julia, that decree of the Divine Augustus which prohibits adultery, you could be sent into exile, to a remote island and deprived of your fortune.'
'I have no fortune,' I said. You know that. We were always poorer than our fellow students. As for Domatilla, I don't deny the charge. Her marriage is wretched. She would like to divorce her husband and marry me.'
He turned on me, met my eyes, and looked away again. He tore with his thumbnail at the side of his index finger till spots of blood appeared. 'I forbid it. I forbid it absolutely. I forbid you to see Domatilla ever again. I forbid you to see her alone. If you disobey you shall feel the full penalty of the law. Do you understand?' I turned and, without seeking permission to depart, left him.
At home, I found a letter from Domatilla. Her brother had already spoken to her. She said we must obey; for my sake, she said. It would be death to me to defy Domitian's imperial command. She herself was retiring to Campania, to her husband's estates. That, too, was what Domitian had ordered.
XXXXI
I never saw Domatilla again. In my heart I reproached her for cowardice, told myself that I would have defied Domitian. So when later there were scurrilous rumours abroad, retailed to me by kind friends, rumours which told of how she and Domitian were locked in an incestuous pact, that he had been seen leaving her bedchamber, then in my bitterness, despite her earlier assurance that she had resisted his advances, I believed them. I was all too eager to believe them. I cursed the frailty and treachery of women, and refused to entertain the thought that she was the victim of slander and that she might, in rejecting me at her brother's command, have suffered even more than I, and had accepted her suffering for my sake, that I might still have a career in public life. So I nursed the viper of resentment in my bosom, and of all with which I have to reproach myself, nothing now seems more culpable than the silent reproaches which I directed for so many years at the only woman whom I ever truly loved, the only one who (I now believe) loved me as a man wishes to be loved.
Yet, indeed, I had a public career, and one of some distinction. I continued to serve Domitian, telling myself I was serving Rome. Since my presence now disturbed him, my service was with the armies on the frontiers of the Empire. I took a not inglorious part in the war against the Chatti (Balthus' tribe, as it happens), which war secured for Rome a defensible northern frontier by enabling the armies of the Rhine to be linked with those of the Danube. Moreover, in as much as it was I myself who drew Domitian's attention to the strategic importance of the valley of the River Neckar, I may fairly boast of having done the State important and enduring service.
But I had aroused the Emperor's jealousy. Dormant for years, since I had shown myself subservient to his will by the abandonment of Domatilla, it was renewed and intensified by my achievements. Now I found myself publicly denounced by his paid informers. Domitian was ready – eager even – to condemn me on charges of treason. Then he relented. I could not understand why. I have since wondered – hoped, hoped fervently – that Domatilla intervened and spoke up for me. But I do not know. Whatever the reason, the most serious charge was dropped. I found myself only – only! – accused of offences against the Lex Scantinia, which prohibits 'unnatural sexual practices'. I viewed the charge with contempt, disdained to enter a plea of innocence, which was certain to be dismissed, submitted to the imperial judgement, and was condemned to exile.
As Tacitus has repeatedly assured me, the tyrant being long dead, it would be safe for me to return to Rome. But to what purpose?
I would now be more a stranger in Rome than I am here. My children would have no place in the city, being bastards and the offspring of a slave. And the woman cares for me, I suppose.
So I drag my days out in this boreal climate. I used to read philosophy. It means nothing to me now. Lust has fled me, too; its last flicker was my brief desire for Balthus, now grey ashes.
At night I drink harsh wine and see ghosts in the flames. There is nothing left for me, and yet I am loth to depart.
I feel no impulse to stretch out my hands to the further shore where, I am convinced, I shall find nothing but darkness and vacancy. If by chance there is some afterlife – if I am mistaken in thinking there none – then I fear it may be a length of cold nights, with sleep broken by dreams one would wish away.
