Master and God (15 page)

If you worked it out, as Lucilla thoughtfully did, Corbulo’s daughter had never before been allowed any independence. Second child of a strong father, she was married very young, to Aelius Lamia; she was still an inexperienced bride when Domitian invited her to Alba and persuaded her to divorce her husband. Domitian was eighteen, Domitia even younger. Adolescents. Immature and thrilled. Lucilla imagined them marvelling that after both being children of disgraced fathers under Nero, they now had a glorious reprieve. Domitian was a star in a brand new ruling dynasty and, during the first heady days of their love affair, he was even his father’s representative in Rome.

They faced a wobble when Vespasian pressed Domitian to marry his brother’s daughter, but Domitian held out for his soulmate. The link to Corbulo’s family had attractions so they were allowed their wish. Domitia moved from one marriage directly into another, but Vespasian insisted they lived with him; it was to enable Domitian’s initiation into government, but it meant that for ten years they never had a home of their own.

Now she was Domitia Augusta, first lady of the Empire; her image was on the currency; she had the same privileges as the Vestal Virgins. So what did she do when, for almost a year, she was left to her own devices with no head of household? Domitia Longina spent long hours flopping on couches, bored. She chatted to friends. She visited her sister. She spent money. She spent more money – though not too much because the Flavians were infamously frugal. In private she dwelt on her loss as a mother, which was not only tragic but diminished her influence as Domitian’s Empress. Then, she ordered up her curtained litter and went to the theatre.

Of course she admired Paris. Paris was brilliant.

The Roman establishment had a mixed reaction to pantomime. It was a form of dramatic performance that came from the east, particularly Syria, although Paris – this particular Paris, for he used a traditional stage name – was Egyptian. Exotic, risqué cultures raised hackles in grumpy Roman conservatives. Rome’s founding fathers, lean men ploughing cold furrows in between fighting fierce enemies, would find this theatrical genre distasteful, while the danger that posturing matinee idols would seduce noblewomen caused horror. Mimes came into frequent contact with such ladies, who threw themselves at performers.

Pantomime presentations, retelling Greek myths, had spectacular stage effects and lavish costumes, so productions were expensive. It was a callisthenic art. It featured rhythmic dance. Sometimes there was an orchestra or merely a sinuous flute, but always percussion. One man, mysteriously masked and with a well-honed body, would perform all the parts in a story while a soloist or chorus sang the lyrics. It was said that a good pantomime talked with his hands. Husbands knew what they thought that meant. They knew where the bastard’s hands were likely to be put when offstage.

Pantomime artistes made extravagant claims on their tombstones that they had led chaste lives. This was to refute satirists, who told the public that pantomimes corrupted morals, the morals of women in particular, although everyone thought the dancing bastards were not picky. They, or at least the theatrical masks they wore, had long hair, which always offends traditionalists. The greatest performer of his day, Mnester, had been put to death for an affair with that byword for voracious sexuality, the Empress Messalina. The Senate had banned mime performances in private homes, and forbade the aristocratic young from joining in dancers’ processions. Rivalry between their fans occasionally led to riots. Sometimes pantomime artistes were exiled – not often enough, said the prudish.

Nevertheless, these cult performers flourished. With huge incomes and celebrity acclaim, plus close contact with the upper classes, they easily became arrogant. Their influence at court was wildly over-estimated; Paris was reputed to control army postings and other rewards, though that hardly squared with the Emperor’s own determination to supervise all appointments himself.

Always caught between his liking for the arts and his self-imposed role as moral arbiter, Domitian enjoyed the pantomime and had seriously admired Paris. That was until he convinced himself that Paris had slept with his wife.

Lara and Lucilla had been to watch Paris perform, though at long distance because their tickets consigned them to the upper rows of the theatre, where women and slaves were segregated. They could see enough to understand his powerful stage presence. Exhilarated themselves by the stirring dance rhythms and by his acting, they had realised that in gazing too long at Paris Domitia Longina was courting trouble. Rumours started. Whether there was anything in those rumours then hardly mattered.

Naturally she was chaperoned. She arrived by closed litter, though the imperial litter was instantly recognisable. To those wanting scandal its curtains, though normal, suggested concealment. Then if she sat, veiled, in the imperial box, there were plenty who would criticise her for appearing in public at all during her husband’s absence. Besides, an imperial lady’s veil tended to be pinned on behind her coronet of curls, leaving her face visible.

Perhaps Domitia did make contact with Paris, though Lucilla thought a face-to-face meeting would put her off sex. She could imagine it. Tiptoeing to the dressing room door with the frisson of danger . . . Then finding that the actor-dancer was older, less cultured and more paunchy than he appeared on stage. Inevitable disappointment. Backstage was hardly glamorous: the aura of liquor, the actual shabbiness of seemingly fabulous costumes, the dancer’s skin coarsened and greasy from the stage makeup, the poverty of conversation from a person who relied on scripts, his difficult Egyptian Greek, his caricature Greek Latin . . . Still, nobody went to a heart-throb to talk.

Was the man one of those easterners who were ‘not safe in palanquins’? Did he have the oriental habit (Lucilla and Lara had both endured it) of backing any woman into a corner, or even launching himself upon her, never caring about witnesses and not hearing protests?

Or perhaps it was all as Domitian dreaded. Perhaps the Empress really had tripped off to some dangerous rendezvous, where she betrayed her husband.

I must tell you my admiration for your delightful and moving performance.

Augusta, the delight is mine! Please let me move you some more by tumbling you lasciviously among these convenient stage-props.

Oh I can’t – Oh I want to – I can . . .

The Emperor believed what he wanted to believe.

Tell me what you did, every detail.

There is nothing to tell.

Domitian remained wildly distrustful. His misery gnawed; he bitterly analysed every facet of his wife’s behaviour. It got him nowhere; there was no evidence. Even if there had been proof of her innocence, he would have disbelieved it. Her declarations of good faith went unheard. Failing to prove the unprovable made him more aggressive. Lara thought Domitia Longina was afraid he would become violent.

So the couple tussled endlessly. They were equally matched, both strong personalities. Neither had had many friends; they had always relied on each other. Nothing would dissuade Domitian. Nothing would cow Domitia. Their quarrels surged and died, then flared again. One or the other would brood on the latest slights, then rampage through anterooms seeking a new fight.

I’ve been watching you.

You saw nothing then.

I’ll be the judge . . .

On that fatal day when Domitian stormed in, the sisters were eventually shooed out by a chamberlain. Uncertain what would happen next, they sat side by side on stone benches outside the room. The corridor was crammed. Attendants of all sorts waited for the current tempest to die down.

That was the day he ordered her to leave.

Sharp intake of breath from everybody. The court was riveted.

It was a shock, but Corbulo’s daughter would not plead. For one thing, he threatened to execute her, so it made sense to get away fast. Once Domitian told her to go, she just packed a few things (by an empress’s standards; her luggage required a mule train). Then she left him.

Domitian was caught on the hop. That must have consoled her – though with him so volatile, she remained at risk.

Life at court deteriorated. Rome was shocked that the Empress, whom most people reckoned innocent, had been wrongfully divorced. Old stories did resurface that Domitia Longina had had an affair with Titus, although the view prevailed that if she had done, she would have boasted of it. New mutterings started about the Emperor’s relationship with Julia.

Julia was living with Domitian. This had been the situation ever since her husband was killed; it was not really odd in Roman terms. With her grandfather and father dead, when Domitian executed her husband Sabinus he made himself her nearest male relation. He was, incontrovertibly, the widowed Flavia Julia’s head of household. Had she been older, married for longer, or a mother, particularly the mother of three children which conferred special rights, then Julia might have lived apart, mistress of her own house.

But she was not yet twenty, and childless.

The Guards had plenty to say about the Julia problem. Gracilis told his beneficarius, ‘It’s perfectly bloody obvious. He has to keep Julia at the court. She is the only child of Titus, eternally beloved. She is an orphan and a widow. She is good looking, wealthy, no one has a word to say against her, and she’s either too shrewd to make waves or a genuinely pleasant girl. By the moral legislation our leader loves, Julia should be remarried pronto and made to carry children. Of course the minute she does that, she becomes a threat to him. He’s stuck. He has to ensure that no other bugger ever marries Julia – and while he keeps her close, everyone is bound to say it’s because Uncle Domitian is fucking her.’

Gaius Vinius quietly overlooked the fact that much of this excellent theory had been his. ‘So what can he do?’

‘Bring the wife back. No bloody option.’

‘What about the mess he’s invented with Paris?’

‘Send the pirouetting poppy into exile.’

Vinius knew his centurion was thinking, thank you, Jove, it was some bloody ballet-dancer their leader had fixed upon. It could have been one of his Praetorians, who sometimes had to escort imperial women. That nightmare of a princess taking a shine to one of her fit and fearless bodyguards; the discipline dilemma and ensuing stink, if a nervous soldier could not think up a polite way to say no . . .

So thank you, thank you all the gods in the pantheon. Whatever else the stupid skirt had done, there was no suggestion she did that.

It was on their watch that Domitian dealt with Paris.

The Emperor was being carried through the streets. Gaius Vinius wondered afterwards if he was actually cruising, on the look-out for the miserable dancer. Certainly, Domitian had had too much time for thinking. In the litter, he had got himself properly churned up again.

Gracilis and some of the cohort were on escort detail, Vinius among them. Domitian abruptly ordered the bearers to stop. He leapt out, highly agitated, his face already flushed. Guards tightened their formation around him, uncertain what he was up to. It was an ordinary street, with clogged gullies along the cobbles and full washing-lines overhead: vegetable stalls, urchins, businessmen, slaves carrying the daily bread. Too many witnesses – even the stray bloody dogs were gawping.

‘Give me a sword!’

Vinius had the misfortune to be nearest. Like all of them he was dressed in a discreet civilian tunic, but was carrying his short military sword in its handsome decorated scabbard. Some colleagues, since they were not bearing shields, had their weapons slung from belts on the left, but Vinius continued to wear his gladius under his right arm as he had learned in the army.

Using the regular move, a smooth right-handed pull and flip, he drew out his sword. Mid-action, Domitian snatched it. Vinius had to whip his hand away to avoid severed tendons.

He himself had identified Paris. Paris had spotted Domitian; watched him grab the weapon. Paris guessed his fate.

So did Gaius Vinius.

Unlike Titus, who had been drilled at court by Nero’s bullish Praetorian Prefect, Burrus, Domitian probably never did much basic training. Becoming the son of an emperor at eighteen had exempted him from the course of honour, the normal series of military and admin posts that conditioned young men of the upper classes. He was at one time called Prince of Youth, which was meaningless. His honours had been all concerned with priesthoods and poetry. He had a reputation for squeamishness and had even discussed abolishing animal sacrifice in religious ceremonial. Though officially a general, the triumphant Germanicus had spilt no blood personally while they were campaigning.

Paris – effete, bejewelled, gorgeously clad, his features cosmetically emphasised – backed against a house wall. It was a sensible move, had this been a mugger after his purse.

Domitian rushed him. To a soldier, it was a disaster. The way the sword point was wavering, Vinius could tell that Domitian would make a mess of the kill. He would probably be hurt himself. Close by, Gracilis spat an obscenity. But Vinius was still nearest.

Nothing for it.

Vinius stepped up behind the Emperor. He felt like a trainer with a raw recruit. He dropped his own fist over the Emperor’s hand on the sword pommel and guided Domitian’s aim. He grasped Domitian’s left shoulder, leant against his back for a firm stance, then shoved the sword for him with the right strength. Paris would have felt as if he had been punched hard in the ribs, but he would not have felt it long. He died there as Vinius wrenched out the blade, with a twist to make sure. Vinius let go of the Emperor; he could feel Domitian shaking. He took a step back.

Gracilis bumped past him. Retrieving the sword from their master, the centurion wiped off most of the blood on the dead actor’s pretty tunic. Knowing him, Vinius believed he was disgusted by this fiasco. ‘Help the Emperor into his litter, make it quick. Someone, fetch the Urbans to control the mob and clear this corpse away . . .’ Respectfully he spoke to Domitian, like a mother rescuing a child: ‘Well done, sir, but that’s enough excitement. Let’s get you home, shall we?’