“What do you think?” Quintus consulted his brother. “Are we?”
“No option.”
“It’s only a dinner.”
“It’s dinner with him.”
“As you said then—no choice!”
“Freedom of choice is for barbarians. Their luxury. We live in a regulated society, sadly for us.” Now Aulus spent a few moments posing like an orator, one arm extended; Quintus leaned back in his chair, listening. The elder brother, chunkier and very slightly shorter, spoke more satirically than usual: “We get up, wash our faces, spend the day trudging those antiquated plough tracks that were dug out for us by our sturdy, porridge-eating forefathers. Honouring the national gods, obeying our wives, being very polite to our banker, rudely ignoring our doctor—then jumping whenever our Emperor commands. Mindless automata. Mere mechanical toys.”
“He doesn’t command us to dinner. It is neutrally phrased. Titus Flavius Domitianus Augustus Germanicus, conqueror of the Chatti and Dacians, in the ninth year of his tribunitian power, fourteen times consul, imperator, pontifex maximus, princeps and Father of the Country, invites your attendance at a banquet on the Palatine.”
“Nine bloody years, eh? Feels like a lifetime. Nice to tell us who he is. Modest … You did read it, then?” scoffed Aulus.
“But of course. Had to check what it was. I was hoping some defendant was offering to bribe me on a case. Yes. I read it—and you are right, perspicacious brother: The wording is cordial, though there is no helpful indication of who to reply to, in the event of our unavailability.”
“Unfortunate illness.”
“Death of favourite horse.”
“Allergic to aspic.”
“Don’t want to get accidental shellfish poisoning from lukewarm nibbles.”
“Don’t want deliberate poisoning.…”
Both senators beamed at the boy. Aren’t we clever? Don’t you love our merry banter?
“Is he planning to do something?” asked Gaius, entirely serious. “Something terrible?”
His father and uncle stopped beaming. Each seemed to be waiting for the other to come up with a neat answer.
“If he is, we shall have to be patient and see,” said Quintus.
Any father of six children will have learned to answer questions vaguely.
After a pause, during which Gaius was clearly brooding, the worried boy commented, “Six hundred senators. That would require huge vats of poison. I believe that strong, very fast-acting poisons have been developed at the palace in the past, but it would be a logistical nightmare.”
His father qualified the numbers: “It is generally accepted that only about a third of Senate members are active. Discount all the ones who hold official posts so are legitimately in foreign lands—legionary legates and tribunes, provincial governors and their young finance officers—forget the ones in exile for criminal activity, and those who are simply too ga-ga to be let off their country estates.… Two hundred actual guests, call it.”
“Swords,” said Aulus, king of the terse rejoinder.
Gaius thought it through. “Swords? So, two hundred men, Praetorians it ought to be, move in quietly behind the dining couches while everyone is reclining and off-guard. Then at a signal, the troops all bring out their weapons, step close and in a synchronised movement they cut throats.… Messy! There would be vats of blood, blood sploshing all over the place.”
“Two hundred slaves with sponges would clean up,” answered Quintus, sighing slightly. “It’s the Palace. They have maintenance teams. Besides, if it did happen, and if they couldn’t get the stains out, the palace surveyor would just lay a new, more fashionable floor right on top. Nice opportunity to buy in something fancier. Domitian loves remodelling projects. His planning is so deliberate, he’s probably chosen tonight’s dining hall specifically because it’s the one he is hankering to change; thinks it is due for a refit, never liked that décor anyway because his brother Titus chose it.”
“Let them bleed!” continued Aulus, with rather too much relish. “Cover the tired old black-and-white geometrics with gore, then install gorgeous polychrome micromosaic, dressed up with twinkly gold bits.”
“You two are just larking about!” Gaius reproved them grumpily. The brothers did not dispute it, though they fell silent as if tired by their own joking. “I am supposed to look up to you—a pair of idiots!” the boy complained. As one, Aulus and Quintus slowly nodded.
Gaius relaxed a little, aware that other boys thought he was lucky to be growing up in this environment. Increasingly these days, he was allowed to share in the humour.
Nevertheless, his father and uncle could be serious; he understood that and when they were, he did admire them. They were well-read, clever men who worked hard, cared about the law and gave good advice to clients, some of whom were grateful to obtain their services. One or two, Quintus had told him, even followed the advice.
“So,” he challenged the brothers. “I have another question for you. Uncle Marcus would say, in his cheery manner, if you are going out to dinner in Rome, you should write your wills before you go. Have you done it?”
Aulus and Quintus both guffawed. “No, of course not; we are lawyers!” chortled Aulus.
“It doesn’t apply? You tell other people to do it, but you never get around to it?”
“Exactly. Ever seen a doctor who never drinks and goes for healthy walks?”
“A banker who puts all his money in time-honoured, risk-free investments?”
“Or a slave at a public latrine who leaves the seat as he would wish to find it?” Gaius himself got in a rude one before they started lowering the tone. That stopped them.
His father went particularly quiet. That was because one evening a few weeks before, Quintus had been attacked on his way home from dinner with his niece. He was seriously beaten up, so badly hurt that Aulus (who had sewn up the worst gashes) afterwards made loud demands for a Senate edict against gangster behaviour.
Aulus, who rarely spoke in the Curia, was now regretting that; he hoped Domitian had been so busy arranging his return to Rome that he had not read the Daily Gazette, with its notes on the Senate’s business. Aulus preferred not to draw attention to himself from the dark throne room.
Quintus found himself under intense scrutiny from Gaius. “Don’t worry. There is a will. I was teasing. You will get your inheritance—bearing in mind that I must provide well for Mother, I shall have to supply a dowry for Aelia, and after that there are five more of you who must share.”
Now that he had dared to raise the question, Gaius thought he might as well press on. “I am glad to hear it is done, but I would like to know, please, whom you have named as our guardian?”
Aulus was the more shocked: “Back off, young man! Your patriarch isn’t fifty yet; don’t be too hasty killing him off. He is only going out for a Chicken Vardana and some flute music.”
“If anything ever happens to me,” Quintus broke in, somewhat stiffly, “your mother will look after all of you.”
“You cannot name a woman,” Gaius reminded him. “She does not have legal capacity.”
“Quite right. Uncle Aulus would be your formal guardian.” Aulus gave his brother a quick glance, as if this came as news to him. Having no children himself, the prospect of acquiring six all at once made him blanch. Besides, living next door, he knew what a handful these were.
Gaius retorted, “That won’t be much use. You’re both dining with the Emperor; what if something bad happens to both of you? Who is the deputy after Uncle Aulus?”
“Uncle Marcus,” confirmed Quintus weakly.
Gaius cheered up. The substitute guardian was Didius Falco, their aunt’s husband, a man who had mentored both Camilli in their time, and the very person who always said make your will before you go out into Rome’s dangerous streets. It was safe to assume Falco would never be asked to a banquet at the Palace. He was an informer, a despised low calling, and an auctioneer, which earned him a lot of money so it was viewed as an even worse profession because money was dirty—unless it happened to be your own. He had been an imperial agent too, though acting for Domitian’s father, which made Domitian suspicious of him.
Falco kept his head down, so if he managed to survive, he might be a gruff but amiable guardian. Jovial Uncle Marcus. He would expect them to work in his auction house, probably for nothing, and if Quintus did manage to leave them an inheritance, it might mysteriously vanish—but they would grow up sane, healthy, competent members of society who could hold their drink or dodge a fight, a new generation who revered women, despised corruption and loathed meanness of spirit. The best thing about him was that he had married Helena Justina, the strong-minded sister of Aulus and Quintus. Falco had known what he was doing. With Aunt Helena taking ultimate charge, Gaius reckoned everything would be all right.
“So you are definitely going?” he asked. “Don’t eat the mushrooms, then!”
This was a time-honoured joke about the Emperor Claudius, who supposedly died at the palace from poison in his dinner. There tended to be fewer jokes about emperors who might themselves poison other people. It could be you next.