12

Although the room had always been hushed, now an even denser silence fell. All the guests lay rigid with anticipation. Domitian began speaking.

The Camillus brothers listened to him with a quiet, respectful air, both wearing the faint smiles of men who had learned during various careers how to brace themselves to last out until the full story had been heard so the real truth behind it was revealed. Aulus had a fistful of funeral nuts, through which he chewed gloomily, screwing up his eyes. Quintus folded his hands and put himself into a private trance.

Dictators love to talk. It is remarkable how men who wield excessive sole power will be consistent in this: Given a captive audience, they all drone on for hours. And hours. The human brain can only concentrate for twenty minutes, ask any teacher. Dictators have rarely been despatched on a training course to learn that simple fact. Many dictators are completely untrained; tyranny comes to them naturally.

When they speak, everything else stops. Nobody dares interrupt. Everyone sits looking rapt, hanging on these words of wisdom even while they are wondering what the flowing tirade really means. Clearly it is their own inadequacy if they are not transported into astounding inspiration by the demagogue’s words of wisdom, so many words, so long in the delivery.… No one can leave. Dictators never pause for a comfort break, nor may any listener abscond, not even with the anxious expression of someone desperate for the lavatory. Go before you come. Never was the adage so appropriate. Leaving the scene prematurely is the fast route to dying. It may feel like the anteroom to hell if you stay, but you’d better remain and look happy.

Dictators have no use for notes, for they are borne up by self-conviction. Besides, they wave their arms a lot for emphasis and to wind themselves up. They start, then continue until they have finished, which you know is going to be a long time later. They know what they have to say, and they most certainly will get through it. All of it, then any more that may come to them during the endless process of the speech.

Keep smiling. Keep smiling and whenever you have the chance, applaud enthusiastically. At one level, clapping will lengthen your misery by making the speech last longer—though of course it’s extending your good fortune if you genuinely like their philosophy. That has been known. On the other hand, drowning him out with cheers provides a respite from the ceaseless continuance of the notable personage. He has grasped this gathering by the throat while he is telling you what he has done so gloriously, then, mentioning the foolish mistakes of others who are not favoured by history in the unique way that he is, and haranguing you with how the future will be glorious because he gives this speech, you listen to it, and that is how it has to be because he has his special understanding, which you are privileged to be sharing.

If there is a joke, laugh.

Do not get that wrong. Never laugh when he is serious. Absolutely do not get it wrong.…

So Domitian began speaking that night on the subject of death. He addressed them in a careful manner, more as if he had thought long in preparing his words than as if he feared making an error. He had been called a good writer and orator, better even than his talented elder brother, though this praise was given by his friends. He never wavered from his theme. He paced the room, becoming in his triumphal robes a shard of glimmering purple and gold amidst the blackness. He spoke. They listened. That was it. There was no question anyone would dare challenge anything; at no point did any guest attempt to engage in a dialogue with their host, as would happen at a normal banquet. Even the old and doddery ones who had little idea where they were or why they had been brought here somehow found enough self-preservation to lie still and keep quiet.

Domitian could do this because he had a captive audience who understood his power. They themselves had given him all the rights that his father and brother had held. He was lord of the civilised world, Father of his Country, chief priest, chief lawgiving magistrate, and although he pretended to be too modest to accept it, people called him their Master and God. They did that, even though it was blasphemous for any living human to claim personal divinity. He brushed off the implication and never punished those who used the term. People around him soon got the hang of how to flatter him.

Flattery was the wisest thing. He had twenty-nine legions to protect his position, plus Praetorian Guards, Urban cohorts and even the vigiles. Soldiers liked him; he tripled their pay, awarding generous bonuses on top. He had also gone on campaign with them, facing dangerous enemies, even if it was at a safe distance. Although his “victories” were inglorious and his peace terms little better, he had chosen wise commanders who overturned bitter defeat, recaptured missing standards, brought home rescued Roman troops—all in his name. One day a soldier would deal him his death blow, but that would be a long time coming.

There had been a mutinous revolt with a rival claimant to power, but Domitian reacted adeptly and survived with panache. The uprising was put down very fast; punishment carried out brutally, but that was the old Roman way. Afterwards, nothing is more dangerous than a dictator who survives a failed coup. He thinks himself invincible. He is out for revenge.

Domitian knew his strengths. He had made his mark on Rome with elegance and generosity. Unlike the raving maniacs of the previous Julio-Claudians, this emperor’s driven wish for control made him a perfect administrator. He could manipulate a budget. His building programme would astound future generations, even though much he had planned would be claimed by his successors. Since he dismissed officials for corruption even when they had not yet done anything corrupt, real embezzlement rarely happened. Having so few friends, he could never be accused of favouritism. He supported the arts; poets cloyingly spoke well of him. Historians quibbled—but would hold their peace until they had newer, safer men of power to flatter.

In the meantime, this cool, introverted, obsessive man in his forties was holding a banquet in his palace, where he could dominate trembling guests. He held the right of execution; he was ready to use that power if a grudge overtook him. His mind was dark, but clever. If he was mad, it was with a muscular kind of insanity, very self-aware. Much of his paranoia was justified, borne of logic and experience. He faced his fears with sardonic courage. If assassins ever came after him, he would go down fighting to the end.

So, tonight he took the floor and said his piece to an audience he despised for many reasons, especially the way they were quaking. Most were transfixed. There was no doubt their fear pleased him. Whatever his ultimate intentions, he was enjoying this moment. He had them. They knew it. Brilliant!

But even as the Emperor relished talking to his audience about death, so ominously implying that the next exit from the world would be theirs, men who knew him to be whimsical still dared to hope. Perhaps this whole dinner party was a charade, sinister yet harmless. Might it all, they wondered incredulously, yet turn out to be nothing but a grim game? Was the black banquet merely Domitian’s spectacular practical joke?