He stroked the golden hair that framed her face, then he touched the shimmering fabric and felt the warmth and solidity of her flesh.
“My Lucia!” he whispered, uttering the name only he was allowed to speak as he covered her mouth with his.
AD 19
To walk across the Forum on a crisp October day, dressed in his trabea and carrying his lituus, gave Lucius a wonderful sense of belonging and self-worth. At the age of twenty-nine he was not just a citizen of the greatest city on earth, he was a husband and the father of twin boys (how Augustus would have approved!) and a highly respected member of the community.
The augury he had just performed had gone very well. A new tavern was about to open on one of the less disreputable streets in the Subura and the owner wanted to determine the best day to begin serving customers. The to-and-fro flight of seagull, a bird seldom seen so far inland, had clearly indicated the day after tomorrow. The ceremony was hardly a momentous occasion, but part of an augur’s duty was to make the auspices available to all citizens, for all sorts of purposes. The tavern owner had paid him the standard fee; Lucius patted the full coin purse tucked inside his trabea. The man had also offered to supply Lucius with food and drink free of charge any time he wished to drop in. Lucius had feigned gratitude, but it was unlikely that he would ever take up the offer. He had grown used to vintages superior to any the humble tavern had to offer, and except for official purposes he rarely visited the teeming, noisome streets of the bustling Subura. His usual places to dine and drink were located on the lower slopes of the Aventine and the Palatine, in neighborhoods where men of a better class tended to congregate.
He was considering a visit to his local favourite, a charming hideaway just down the street from his house, when he ran into Claudius. He was about to invite Claudius to come along, then saw the look on his friend’s face.
“Claudius, what’s happened?”
“T-t-terrible news. T-t-terrible!” There were tears in his eyes. He seemed unable to speak for a moment, caught on some stubborn consonant, then he blurted it out: “G-Germanicus is dead! My dear brother. Dead!”
“Oh, Claudius, this is terrible news.” Lucius wrinkled his nose at the smell of stale wine. His friend was drunk. Lucius took his arm, but Claudius was rooted to the spot, trembling and blinking back tears.
A year before, Lucius’s father had died. The elder Pinarius had not suffered much; he developed a terrible headache one day, fell into a coma that night, and two days later was dead, without ever regaining consciousness. The sudden loss had shaken Lucius. Claudius had been a comfort to him in the days of mourning, and Lucius would do his best to return the favour to his distraught friend.
“Did he fall in battle?” asked Lucius. After his grand triumph in Roma, Germanicus had been posted by Tiberius to Asia, where he had enjoyed even greater success, defeating the kingdoms of Cappadocia and Commagene and turning them into Roman provinces. Lately there had been talk of granting Germanicus a second triumph. Only the greatest commanders in Roma’s history had received more than one.
“No, he died in his b-b-bed.”
“But Germanicus was so young.”
“Barely thirty-five – and in the b-b-best of health until he fell ill. The physicians blame some mysterious wasting disease – but there are rumours of p-p-poison, and m-m-magic spells scrawled on lead tablets.”
“But who would have dared to murder Germanicus?”
Claudius took a deep breath and steadied himself. “In the days of Augustus, we wondered who might p-p- poison the emperor. Now we wonder whom the emperor might p-poison! And in both cases, the culprit is the same.”
Lucius looked up and down the street. There were few people in sight, and no one close enough to overhear them. Still, Lucius lowered his voice. “You mustn’t say such a thing, Claudius.”
“At least my nephew is well, as far as we know. P-p-poor little Caligula, an orphan! Surely no one would p- poison a seven-year-old boy.”
“Surely not,” agreed Lucius, thinking of his own sons, who were barely a year old. He reached up to touch the vacant spot at his breast; on this day he was not wearing the fascinum. He felt an urge to hurry home. “Come with me, Claudius. Acilia will want to hear the news. My mother will cook us dinner. You can spend the night with us.”
“No, no, no. I have too much to do. P-p-people to tell. Arrangements to m-make.”
“Then I’ll come with you,” said Lucius, trying to hide his reluctance.
“No, no, Lucius, you belong with your family. Go to them now. I shall be quite all right. No one would ever want to p-poison or put a spell on p-p-poor Claudius.” He turned away and hurried down the street.
Lucius looked after him until he disappeared around a corner, then headed home.
Even before he entered the house, he knew something was wrong. The door stood wide open. Where was the slave who minded the entrance? From within he heard the twins, Titus and Kaeso, crying loudly. Then he heard more-disturbing sounds: a man barking orders, the stamp of booted feet, the sound of furniture being overturned, a shriek from Acilia.
Lucius rushed inside. In the vestibule, the wax effigies of his ancestors were askew in their niches, as if someone had been rifling among them; the effigy of his father had fallen to the floor. He ran into the reception hall, from which he could see into the surrounding rooms. Soldiers had invaded his house and were busy ransacking it. From their imperial insignia he knew that they were Praetorians, the elite corps of centurions stationed in a fortified garrison just outside the city. The Praetorians were charged with guarding the emperor’s person and with apprehending the emperor’s enemies. What were they doing in his house, tearing the furniture apart, shaking out rugs, knocking holes in the walls?
“Stop this at once!” Lucius shouted.
The soldiers looked at him and paused. Two of them ran to him. While one held his shoulders, the other searched his person.
“No weapons!” the soldier shouted. They released him and carried on with what they were doing.
Acilia appeared, carrying Kaeso and Titus, one in each arm. The boys were red-faced and wailing. Their mother was ashen. She ran to Lucius’s side.
Following closely behind her was a tall man with a commanding presence. At his approach, the twins fell silent. Lucius recognized him: Sejanus, prefect of the Praetorians and right-hand man to Tiberius. The man’s steely gaze made Lucius’s blood run cold.
“What is the meaning of this?” said Lucius. “Why are these men looting my house?”
“Looting?” Sejanus smiled grimly. “Later, if an order of confiscation is issued, your possessions will be removed in an orderly fashion. But for now, Lucius Pinarius, my men are not here to rob you. They are here to search for evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“We shall know that when we find it.”
One of the soldiers approached. He held an unrolled scroll in his hands. “Prefect, I found this among the documents in that room over there.” He nodded towards Lucius’s study.
Sejanus took the scroll, blew dust off it, and studied it. His face grew long. “What have we here? By Hercules, I believe this is a horoscope that was cast for the emperor. What possible excuse can you give me for possessing such a document, Lucius Pinarius?”
Lucius opened his mouth but did not speak. Sejanus held the copy of a horoscope cast by Thrasyllus that Claudius had given him years ago as an example for him to study, when Lucius had tried and failed to master the science of astrology.
“No answer?” snapped Sejanus. “Where did you obtain this?”
Should he tell the man that the emperor’s own nephew had given it to him? Surely that would absolve him of whatever suspicion Sejanus harboured. Or would it? Claudius’s brother had just died, and Claudius clearly thought that Tiberius was responsible. Doddering, stuttering Claudius had always been considered outside the circle of
