Master and God (55 page)

Stephanus had bandaged his forearm as if he had some injury. He wore an obvious sling, like a hypochondriac, walking about the palace that way until everyone had seen him. By the end of a week, the Guards grew bored with searching him for concealed weapons. That was when Stephanus hid a dagger under the bandages.

When Gaius confessed his fears that Domitian was composing written details of the plot, Lucilla decided to do something; she pretended she had to see the Empress.

Domitia Longina rarely asked for her these days, not since Flavia Domitilla was exiled; the Empress was probably afraid Lucilla would want her to beg Domitian to let his niece return. Lucilla would not waste her breath. As far as she knew, Domitia had never once tried to influence a political decision.

Lucilla guessed where Domitian would be keeping his notes. Like innocent children, emperors tucked secret things under the pillows in their bedrooms. At the palace, she used her skills. She made friends with one of the naked boys who flitted about the court, generally up to mischief. She sent him in to look. Rather than be spotted lurking suspiciously, she told the lad she would come back for anything he found, after she had paid her respects to their imperial mistress.

When she entered the room, everyone was discussing Domitian’s fears for tomorrow. Apparently, he kept exclaiming dramatically, ‘There will be blood on the moon in Aquarius!’ Domitia retorted, in that case she would make sure she was away seeing friends.

The Empress allowed Lucilla to kiss the rouged regal cheek, then Lucilla began inspecting what Domitia’s maids had done to her hair, tweaking her coronet fussily.

‘You look pregnant! Do you know whose it is?’

‘Yes, Madam. He will be a good father.’

‘Well, that’s lucky.’

The inevitable happened. The boy had found Domitian’s note tablet. He brought it to Lucilla. Domitia spotted him. She demanded the tablet. She read it.

Holding up a mirror behind the Empress’s head, Lucilla craned to look over her shoulder. There, in Domitian’s fervent handwriting were packed columns of names, some of them accurate.

Domitia was silent for a long moment. Expensive jewels rose and fell with her strained breathing. She slammed shut the double-sided note tablet, almost crushing her own fingers with their burden of heavy antique rings.

‘The appalling little thief has no idea what this contains. Luckily I was shown it.’ She grasped the tablet firmly. Standing beside her chair, Lucilla stayed motionless, expecting the worst.

The Empress turned her head and looked straight at her. Domitia Longina of the compressed lips and uncompromising attitude murmured scornfully, ‘He will not be deterred by losing a few notes!’ Then, as if to herself: ‘These people need to hurry up, if they really mean business.’ Suddenly she passed the note tablet across. ‘Flavia Lucilla! Your man is a Praetorian?’ She seemed bored now. ‘Show this to him, will you? I presume he will know what to do about it.’

Astonished, Lucilla nodded faintly. Domitia turned immediately to someone else, closing her association with the tablet.

The Empress must be not unaware of the plot, not unaware that the names she had read were significant. She knew the implications if she told the plotters how close they were to detection.

Of course there were dangers to Domitia herself in an assassination. When Caligula was killed by his Guards, his wife Caesonia was also brutally murdered, and the brains of their infant child dashed out. Domitia had no reason to think the new conspirators intended to deploy only minimum violence. Domitia had watched her husband’s deterioration at close quarters. Had she decided there was no hope of recovery and his exit was inevitable? Cynically, if she survived her husband, that would be her release from misery too. People thought she was terrified he intended harm to her.

Or maybe Corbulo’s daughter chose to act in the national interest: that noblest of motives for any Roman, man or woman.

Lucilla lost no time in informing her colleagues they must act immediately.

The hunt for the next emperor assumed desperate urgency.

The last man they approached was Cocceius Nerva. He might be sympathetic because he had had a nephew, Salvius Cocceianus, who had also been related to the Emperor Otho, a rival to the Flavians back in the Year of the Four Emperors. Domitian had executed Salvius for honouring his Uncle Otho’s birthday.

Nerva was a long-term politician, now in his sixties, looking frail and some thought faintly sinister. Childless, and not particularly liked, he had little experience of provincial government or the army. He was a stalwart Flavian, but conversely this might help smooth over any backlash because he would be acceptable to Flavian supporters. In the course of a chequered history, he had helped Nero put down the Piso conspiracy with much harshness; it was said he also heavy-handedly helped Domitian’s retribution process after the Saturninus Revolt. At least, said Gaius dryly, it meant Nerva knew how plots worked.

Everyone, including Nerva himself, acknowledged that because of his age he was a stop-gap. This would allow a second look at the succession, time to interest a worthy successor. For Nerva, his life was drawing to a close, so why not take a risk?

He was in Domitian’s advisory council, the amici, one of Caesar’s friends. Not that that stopped him. Nerva agreed to do it.

The eighteenth of September came. Domitian spent the morning in court, giving cases his usual pedantic attention.

At noon he adjourned. He was intending to take a bathe and his usual siesta. He demanded to know the time. Attendants assured him it was already the sixth hour, knowing his dread of the fifth. Parthenius then mentioned discreetly that a man had something significant to show him, in his private suite. Obsessed with threats, the Emperor was all too keen to hear what this person had to say. Parthenius controlled access to the Emperor. He trusted Parthenius to vet admissions.

Domitian fearlessly set off alone. A perfectionist, he always wanted to be in sole control of anything vital.

In his bedroom, he found Stephanus, still with his arm bandaged. He handed Domitian a document. As Domitian intently perused this, Stephanus produced the concealed dagger.

At Plum Street, Gaius and Lucilla had spent the hours after breakfast together in their apartment. Their mood was quiet, sober though resigned. They took a special pleasure in the routines of this morning, as if it might be their last time together.

‘This was our home.’

‘Wherever we both are, that’s home.’

Gaius gave Lucilla his discharge diploma. Ordinarily the tablets were signed by Domitian; using his authority as cornicularius, Gaius had had these completed and Lucilla did not ask him if the signature was forged.

‘Released from my oath.’ She understood.

They clasped hands. Each thanked the other for the life they had had together. Neither wept, though both were close to tears.

Gaius was going to the palace to see what had transpired; he had a plan for them to vanish safely afterwards. If anything happened to him, Lucilla would have to manage on her own. There was money. They had plenty, much already sent on ahead.

‘I am coming with you.’

‘No. Stay here.’

‘You never give me orders!’ One hand on her stomach, Lucilla allowed him a let-out. ‘You fear for the child.’

‘For the child, yes – but above all, I am afraid for you, Lucilla. Wait for me here until an hour before the vehicle prohibition lifts. If I have not returned, you must leave at once without me. Think of the baby, think of me and how I love you. Then go and be safe.’

Lucilla gave her promise. Gaius kissed her, came back and kissed her one more time, and left. He was dressed as a Praetorian, in a red tunic, soldier’s boots and military belt, and wearing his sword.

As he walked down the Vicus Longus, he was struck by the normality of Rome. Nor was there anything extraordinary about his own behaviour: a tall man with long legs, walking with a slow tread to his workplace. Though approaching forty, he had kept up the twenty-mile training marches; he was strong and solid. Not yet forty: still plenty of time yet to cause havoc.

It was towards the end of summer, but days were long and the sky cloudless. In September, the sunny side of Roman streets was still uncomfortably hot, though the shade felt clammy. Lines of washing and bedcovers flung over balcony rails to air hung motionless. When, heavy with his mission, the cornicularius sucked in a deep sigh, the air was warm in his lungs.

The fifth hour was when most shops drew across their shutters. People were at lunch; the sixth hour would be their rest period. Few people were about. In this traditionally quiet time, Rome basked. Shabby dogs curled against house walls, asleep. From behind upper floor window shutters came the sound of an unhappy baby mithering. Further along, Clodianus smelt fried food and heard the routine knock of cutlery on pottery.

He turned left, to reach the Forum at the western end, marching faster as he passed the Arch of Titus; he was still relaxed but purposeful. With the House of the Vestals on his right, he crossed the uneven ancient slabs of the Sacred Way then climbed up the steep approach to the Palatine. All the Guards on duty knew him. They nodded in their cornicularius without question.

Inside the palace, there was no Praetorian presence. Secundus must have given the right orders.

Everything in the public areas seemed otherwise normal. Visitors, in Rome for the Games, milled around in the massive state rooms immediately beyond the grand entrance. The cornicularius pushed through the crowds and kept going.

The architect had designed this complex to astonish, delight and confuse people. Knowing it would be his last ever visit, Clodianus took more notice than usual but he did not slow down, apart from when he took care on a flight of steps. Knowing his way around, as all Guards did, he entered the imperial family’s private quarters, exquisite suites nesting deep within the more public areas. He saw no servants in the corridors.

He went quickly to the agreed rendezvous. Parthenius was there, among a small group of others. With them was Nerva, a good-looking elderly senator, who had crinkled hair above a triangular face and a gentle manner. No spare flesh on him. He looked as if he was wetting himself with terror. Clodianus recognised another man as the consul, Caesius Fronto. Fronto looked calm, though keyed-up.

Parthenius gave him a breathless update. Domitian and Stephanus were locked in; Parthenius had arranged locked doors to keep out attendants. The combatants had been closeted for a long time, too long. Noises suggested that they were still fighting, with Domitian very much alive.

Clodianus cursed. He was not surprised by what he heard. Without hesitation, he took over.

He left Parthenius fanning Nerva, who had almost collapsed with terror. They had always had a secondary plan in case Stephanus failed. Clodianus took Entellus, the secretary of petitions, with Sigerius, a junior chamberlain. Parthenius sent one of his freedmen, Maximus. The gladiator who had tried to train Stephanus tagged along.

All the doors to the private suite were still locked. Screaming was audible inside. Two voices.

Clodianus could have crashed in, using a shoulder, but he chose the quiet method. He had taken a key from Parthenius. That way, once they reached the bedroom, his arrival went almost unnoticed during the crucial first moment.

He assessed the scene: a mess. A total bloody mess. But retrievable.

Domitian and Stephanus were grappling on the bedroom floor. Both looked exhausted. Stephanus had stabbed Domitian in the groin. There was blood, blood everywhere. The Emperor had grabbed the dagger with his hands; his fingers were lacerated. The dagger was lying a long way from where they were now.

Stephanus had facial wounds. Domitian had tried to gouge out his eyes. Stephanus must have been stabbed too at some point; his condition looked critical.

Someone else was there, someone who should not have been. Crouching petrified was the long-haired boy who tended Domitian’s personal gods in a bedroom shrine. Palpitating with terror, the Lares boy had frozen beside the massive bed. The Emperor must have screamed for him to bring the knife he kept under its scented, silken pillows. A scabbard had skittered across the marble. All the boy was holding was a pommel with its blade removed: again, Parthenius’ work.

Attendants loyal to Domitian were battering at other doors. Time had run out.

Armed with daggers by Parthenius, the men who came in with Clodianus moved in and tackled Domitian. Entellus, Sigerius, Maximus stabbed him, one after another, a further seven times. Still, he refused to die.

The squad stood back, shaking their heads at Domitian’s resilience. The freedmen were cool enough; they did well. Only the gladiator had no heart for it. Elsewhere in the imperial suite, doors abruptly crashed inwards. There were shouts; people approaching. Clodianus signalled the others to make themselves scarce. They disappeared, leaving a swathe of bloody footprints. Stephanus stayed, too badly hurt to escape yet struggling again to come at Domitian.

Attendants burst in. Making a concerted effort, they pulled Stephanus away from Domitian and killed the steward. Fair enough. It was always convenient if a murderer was finished off at the scene. No messy trial, one neat culprit to be blamed. You could almost wonder cynically if Parthenius had planned that.

Parthenius came into the room.

Domitian was gasping grotesquely, and still snaking sluggishly around the floor. Seeing a Praetorian, Clodianus, his protégé, he desperately tried to speak. Clodianus gestured to the others to stay back. He heard Parthenius give calm orders to the servants. That still left the problem.

What was your thinking when you involved yourself?

He was going to die anyway . . .

Clodianus trod carefully across the floor. Astonishing how far one small drop of blood could spread, as it flattened on the marble in a fine spray. Astonishing how much other gore from the two combatants had spurted, pooled and jellied. Above one glistening, bloodstained area flies already circled with morbid fascination.