The rest of the day passed, too slowly for some, too quickly for others.
In most of Rome, people remained oblivious to the deep apprehension that oppressed the top tier of society. A cool but pleasant November day moved on from a quiet morning of recovery after the Emperor’s official triumph, through a subdued lunchtime, then into the diminution of the light that, even in the Mediterranean, already anticipated winter. While sluggish public slaves cleared up after the citywide festivities yesterday, many stall holders were not bothering to do business, although by evening shops and artisan workshops began opening their shutters again. The public were weary. Trade would be slow. Hauling doors open and eventually lighting their tiny oil lamps was carried out more for social interaction than commerce.
Although the triumph had held the whole city in its strident, colourful, relentlessly festive grip from dawn to dark, traces of it were cleared remarkably fast. The thing was over and done with. Domitian had wanted it, he had duly achieved it, but the event had seemed tawdry. In the absence of genuine victory, there was insufficient plunder; there were too few prisoners; nobody had heard of the alleged enemies who suffered ritual strangling on the Capitol as a finale. Citizens and visitors had felt disappointed. Only the soldiery liked Domitian. For everyone else, this uncompromising man would always be less popular than his father and brother, and now that he was back in Rome, they were desperately afraid of whatever misery he might be intending for them. They cheered his procession, but the lack of empathy was ominous. He thought people wanted rid of him; some did. No one could prevent his triumph, but the enforced jubilation soon died down. Today was quiet; tomorrow would be normal business.
So, this banquet on the Palatine, supposedly “for the fallen”: what was it about? Certainly, there had been fighting in various places along the Danube frontier. It had lasted for years and might never reach an end. The worst in recent years had taken place outside imperial territory, a disaster within the hostile land of Dacia, when an overextended Roman army, including a large contingent of Praetorian Guards, was massacred at a dismal dunghill village called Tapae. But that was five years ago. It was now uncomfortably late to be honouring those men, even though they were elite troops, horribly butchered in a foreign land. Besides, the Roman attitude to military defeat rarely involved celebrating the unsuccessful dead.
Rome preferred to forget failure. Of course you did go and bury the bodies, if it could be done. You then spent years trying to fetch back military standards, because of their symbolic value. You honoured the commander and the units who managed to carry out that unhappy clear-up. So what was this? Who was it really for?
It was true that there had since been a more successful campaign; a new army had marched out, using greater care, because Domitian was supremely good at planning and desperately sore about failure. The new commander reversed the defeat at Tapae, supposedly at the very spot where his predecessor’s force had been ambushed. Even so, he deemed it too risky to march on into the Dacian heartland, and so it could not yet be the right moment to overrun the Dacian capitol. Sarmizegetusa Regia: Dear gods, even its name sounded threatening. And without taking the citadel at bloody Sarmizegetusa, they would never destroy the warlike Dacian king. That meant the big hairy brute in his exotic trousers and Phrygian cap remained, now diplomatically described as an ally, yet still potentially a foe: hovering, hostile, challenging, liable to be dangerous for years to come.
No one should forget that Tapae happened after this king’s Dacian warriors had crossed the Danube, swarmed over the Roman province of Moesia, killed, ravaged, plundered, then even barbarically beheaded a Roman governor.
The dreaded king had been brought around to Rome with money. Eight million sesterces were to be handed over annually: a stunning pay-off. Domitian probably saw that as a genuine victory. No one else did. Even so, men who had died in the fighting were to be celebrated tonight. So as members of the Senate arrived on the Palatine, all except a handful who dared call themselves Domitian’s friends—he did have friends, though they had to be courageous men—all the rest could only pray that honouring the dead would not involve further bloodshed: theirs.
The first misery they faced was a straightforward traffic jam. This always blights royal occasions. A good timetable allows for it. Security forces have to be deployed to keep things moving, not simply to check arrivals’ credentials (which they can do at the same time). . Ideally, these men are hand-picked for tolerance, even if they are not exactly briefed to be polite. Traffic management cannot be achieved with a soft attitude.
Drawing a couple of hundred guests up a steep hill at a set time would never be easy. Many were elderly, or at least conscious of their dignity, so they insisted on travelling in fancy chairs or four-cornered litters. Bulky palanquins containing overweight cargo were being manhandled by staff who, in many cases, had not had much practice lately. It was also essential for anyone of noble rank to emphasise his public importance by having a crowd of attendants, the bigger the better. Some were just for show, though other slaves had jobs, tasks a refined senator could not be expected to conduct for himself, such as straightening the heavy folds of his toga and changing his footwear from outdoor shoes to party slippers on arrival. They had to carry his personal paraphernalia: his money, his fly whisk, his dinner napkin, any medicine he needed, a scroll he might to decide to read on the journey, or perhaps a note tablet with the address a woman had given him, a house where he was on a promise if this dinner did not end too late.…
To cope with such a high-flown mob, the logistics corps had set up a one-way system. People were supposed to arrive via the imperial ramp that climbed up the hill in seven switchbacks; the plan was for them to leave afterwards down the relatively straight cryptoporticus, a covered corridor further over on the Palatine. A major cause of congestion was that many of the guests seemed unaware of this sensible arrangement, with self-willed senators insisting that nobody had told them, so when they arrived at the wrong entrance in the Forum, there were loud altercations that had to be sorted out by Praetorian Guards, who were not gentle. Scenes of chaos choked the area. Even after they were manoeuvred into the long queue creeping up the ramp, these senators’ outrage was still audible.
Among the het-up throng, Camillus Aelianus and Camillus Justinus were quietly making their way together. Both were on foot—hardiness was a traditional virtue. Besides, Justinus’s wife had asked him not to let their carrying chair be bumped around in the fray, to save damaging its paintwork.
They looked smart and smelt better. They wore long white tunics under heavy white togas with wide purple detailing. Nielloed belt buckles, silver and black. A battery of signet rings. Fancy shoes. Barbered to a sheen. They were travelling the short distance from the Capena Gate in a haze of unguents: boys’ ploys. They owned the wherewithal; tonight they had splashed it on. Quintus always received fancy flasks of manly lotions from his children at Saturnalia and on his birthday. Aulus liked to treat himself at a secretive apothecary called the Transformer, which imported high class resins and balms. These were prepared by an unguent-cooker, with claims that they removed wrinkles and hints about helping sexual prowess. His iris water steeped in ginger grass was, in fact, basic, and clashed with his brother’s splash; Quintus had no idea what was in his, only that it made him cough.
Aulus brought a small group of male slaves in plain tunics and sandals. Among them was Toutou, a tiny black boy from North Africa who was supposed to light the journey home. Though an odd acquisition by the conservative Aulus, it was fashionable to park a curly-haired lantern-bearer outside any dinner party you attended, where the child would cutely fall asleep. Toutou, who could only be about four, was so loved in the household, one of the other slaves was actually carrying him in his arms up the ramp.
Quintus came with his regular bodyguards, booted men from his old legion. These were battered specimens who had been invalided out—so by definition they were missing various body parts, though they were mentally tough, with a deep loyalty to Justinus because he was unusual; he had given them a home and a job. Normally if the legions signed you off early, you were finished.
All these attendants had a po-faced air tonight; for once, it was their masters who might be done for, yet that had horrible implications. Other senators in this crawling line brought people who had failed to work it out, but the Camillus staff realised how badly the situation could affect them. Domitian might intend to confiscate assets: If this dinner went wrong, for victims’ retainers it might soon mean the slave market or begging under a bridge. They were not happy.
None were armed. Before they set off, one or two suspicious bulges under tunics had been in evidence, but Justinus had reviewed the men, including his brother’s escorts. He made them ditch anything that could be classed as a weapon. “I know you are always up for it, and there have been times when I was grateful—but please, lads, no set-tos with cudgels on the Palatine tonight!”
They concurred because they had to. He made it plain he wasn’t letting them go anywhere unless they would pass if they were officially searched. So now the brothers were strolling side by side at a gentle pace up the imperial ramp, with slaves and veterans simply packed in a close formation behind them on the narrow slopes, making sure nobody else jostled or overtook them. Toutou’s lantern was dark so far because the covered entrance was lit with flares that gave off a tickling smell of bitumen, with eerie shadows on the tall walls.
Aulus and Quintus paced up the long drag without complaint. Unlike many of their colleagues, they had endured plenty of situations that needed patience. For one thing, they had worked with their informer brother-in-law, Falco. His junior assistants were given the worst jobs, in investigations that often called for boring waits in doorways, sessions on watch in lacklustre bars, endless keeping warm of stone benches outside imperial offices. As young men, both brothers had been in the army for brief periods too, and Aulus once acted as a runabout for a provincial governor. Nowadays, if they absolutely could not reach a private pact for a client, they would appear in court. Tedium was nothing new.
Eventually, they reached the summit. Emerging through a tall arch onto the flat area in front of the palace, they found it thick with soldiers.
“Here we go!” muttered Aulus.
Many of the troops were Praetorians. Normally even the Emperor’s men obeyed the rule that nobody bore arms within the city boundary, showing respect to the heart of Rome, which had been regarded as sacred since Romulus and Remus were suckled by the she-wolf. The Guards wore togas. It never disguised their military boots and belts, or their unmistakable swagger; anyway, it was presumed swords could be had in a moment if an assassin struck out at the Emperor. The Guards tended to be tall, hard and visibly aggressive. They were old lags who loved the army life, ruled by long-term chief centurions who revered discipline as a mystic art. They were all on personal contracts with Domitian, top froth creamed off from the legions—and paid twice as much, with all that brought.
Tonight, although some still honoured the no-weapons law, ceremonially armoured men were seeded among them. In tribute to the dead, these surviving colleagues were allowed their kit, which meant spears as well as swords and daggers, plus some shields, and even full-face parade helmets that gave them a mysterious passionless look. Officers were equipped with heroically moulded breastplates. Every scrap of metalwork was buffed to a high sheen.
As always, along with so much armour came constant chinking, creaking sound effects. In war, soldiers needed to be silent, but their accessories created an aural background once their normal groin guards and segmented corsets were enhanced with ceremonial tackle—medallions, miniature spearheads, helmet crests in screw-on holders, cloak fasteners, wrist grips, belts and sheaths with fancy tangs. As might be expected, weapon-maintenance scents clung to them: the vinegar, oils and waxes they used for daily rust-prevention. Then, as a slight breeze riffled over the Palatine heights, the men themselves brought gusts of wine and garlic, tonight mingled with bathing, breath-freshening and barbering products.
Their main contribution, surely intended, was menace. The atmosphere was heavy with the Emperor’s power. Rome knew how to use an honour guard to imbue an occasion with threat.
The long line of senators disgorged from the narrow ramp into an outside audience space. After passing through the ornate garden, they made themselves known to civilian palace chamberlains, while silent soldiers stood and watched. Means of transport, chair-bearers and torch-carriers were ordered away from the arrival point; guests blinked at the swiftness with which they were peeled off.
As each senator arrived, he was crossed off a list. Top-grade secretarial clerks were using the full pen and ink, not waxed boards and styli.
“Looks bad!” joked Camillus Justinus affably, as a thick, straight line was ruled in black through his name. “I am deleted!” Camillus Aelianus had chosen to say nothing.
Then, under the pointed stares of the military, they filtered indoors. Once through the immense marble entrance, there was an awe-inspiring audience hall, with several possible dining rooms that might have been used tonight, not least a grand salon with huge picture windows that gave splendid city views. However, that was not the venue.
As they passed into the vestibule, they were told their remaining attendants must stay behind. For some, this was a facer. Normally wives would have been invited too, competent women who would assist with matters of etiquette and who could be relied on to keep conversation going. While other senators milled around in distress at this new separation, the Camilli calmly let themselves be parted from slaves, bodyguards, even little Toutou and his lantern. Each guest now found himself stranded. Men who could not blow their noses without bothering a slave felt helpless. Alone, their disorientation had begun. The rich never moved anywhere unless surrounded by their slaves, their own people. This formed a private cocoon—so now, they found themselves forced to make eye contact and even speak nervously to colleagues. Aulus and Quintus were all right; they had each other.
Following flunkeys, their path was made through lines of soldiers—not so closely spaced as to threaten, but close enough to prevent wandering. To seat a large banquet always takes an age. A snack beforehand is advised.
Eventually, while they queued outside a curtained room, Aulus persuaded a doorman to explain that progress was so slow because everyone had to be assigned his very particular dining couch. They were to enter the room single file, one guest at a time. There was a reason, which they would find out. Another chamberlain with another list was matching them up, then calling out each name as the senator in question was passed in.
The Camilli were allowed to enter together. The city of Romulus respected brotherhood. Don’t talk about Remus.…
Dark, heavy drapes were eased aside by unseen hands, allowing space to admit them while hiding the room from everyone queueing behind.
“Aulus Camillus Aelianus, Quintus Camillus Justinus—Decimifilii!”
As soon as they crossed the threshold, the curtains immediately dropped back. By then they were paying no attention to the world they had left.
They had stepped into blackness.
They expected a blaze of lights but met gloom so deep they nearly staggered off balance. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust. Their jaws dropped; it seemed to be their turn to enunciate that trusty old swearword: the response to panic. Nothing came out. This darkness was throttling. Aulus and Quintus stood elbow-to-elbow, too stunned to speak.
Their fears were right. The Emperor was planning something—and here he was. Spotlit within a pale caul of light, Domitian stood in full triumphal regalia. Here was a one-man receiving line, awaiting each guest’s reaction to his stunning design. One by one the Senate members would enter. The Emperor barely bothered to greet them: He wanted to observe their shock.