The niceties passed quickly. The party would never have started if every guest had tried to hold a meaningful conversation with their imperial host. His notion of manners never involved tactfully bringing shy guests out of themselves or making everyone feel welcome; he did not care whether they said something about themselves, because he had invariably decided already what he thought of them. To be fair to him, most senators normally needed no help and would warble away bombastically; yet, dear gods, tonight was hardly normal.
Afterwards, Justinus thought he had honoured Claudia’s instructions to say, “Thank you for having me.” He would tell her he did, even if it made him croak with insincerity. Aelianus was completely reticent. In company, he always looked remote, as if he had just remembered a walnut cake he had left in his bedroom, so he wanted to go back to stop his body-slave eating it.
Someone murmured in the imperial ear. Standing there in near darkness, the Emperor repeated their names, as if memorising them for an execution order. He held their gaze briefly, letting them know he forgot nothing. It was twenty years since their uncle disgraced the family. Domitian was remembering it now.
In the slurry of plots and counterplots at the end of the Year of the Four Emperors, even after Vespasian was acclaimed, the transition had not been seamless. Ambitious men continued schemes to install different candidates. Even among Flavian supporters, it was said that Vespasian’s relative, a man called Cerialis, had wanted to lure Domitian into supplanting his father, although Cerialis had always had questionable judgement and Domitian was an untrained youth of eighteen. The Camillus uncle stupidly helped to organise a plot with similar intentions. After it was uncovered, he vanished, known to be dead, though the family could never claim his body. Publius had had no memorial. He was never mentioned at family gatherings. But he had blighted their lives.
The young pretender at the centre of such plots had shown no gratitude to those who promised to back him. Now, with his elder brother Titus dead—perhaps even poisoned by Domitian himself—the throne was his. The Praetorians supported him, since he was Vespasian’s son; the Senate acquiesced for the same reason. His succession did not help the Camilli, though to date nor had it damaged them further. With Domitian, though, that could change at any moment. He might or might not have been a willing participant in the old plot. He had seemed to ignore it ever since, but they knew he would never forgive the crucial fact: it failed. At the time, Domitian had been admonished by his father, forced to accept his elder brother defending him, tainted with nonperformance, demoted to running poetry competitions instead of sharing in government like Titus. Nine years into his eventual reign, resentment still burned like stomach acid. That was him: famous for brooding.
“Camillus Aelianus! Camillus Justinus!” Domitian intoned, staring. He named them thoughtfully, as if he had just discovered a crime they had committed.
They had grown more used to the dark so could make him out more clearly. In his glimmering purple the Emperor was a solid shape, with massed gold embroidery slithering over the full-length robes of a conquering general. He had a big, square forehead, above which lay extremely regular curls—known to be fake. Below a hooked Sabine nose inherited from his father, his mouth was the most defining feature of his face. It was oddly soft. Perhaps it had a suggestion of overbite, with the upper lip curved and protruding slightly.
“Connected to Didius Falco.” That was it then. “You want to be careful there!”
The Emperor made their association a shameful issue, yet he could not even know how closely they had sometimes worked with the man. Trained and moulded in Falco’s image as they were, strong family affection went both ways. That should be private—but had whisperers been passing information to Domitian?
Something bothered the Emperor, something to do with that old plot. Falco, their anarchic brother-in-law, had carried out missions for Vespasian, including some mopping up operation; he even occasionally snarled that Domitian was a killer, not just an innocent puppet used by others. This was dangerous. Falco still possessed an item of evidence—no one was sure what, no one knew where he kept it. To this day his wife, their sister Helena, who was normally a strong woman, wept if anybody tried to talk about that time.
Quintus thought the Emperor was well aware that he was better informed than them and was relishing his advantage. They had had nothing to do with whatever had happened. Like so many in Rome, however, the brothers were damned by the past. If the story was revived, nothing would save them. They were catalogued in the unforgiving archive of Domitian’s dark mind.
New arrivals were pressing in behind them. Having made his threats, the Emperor lost interest. He had others to bully. He let the Camilli go.
Finally, they became fully aware of this piece of theatre. A few lamps, of the kind used at funerals, allowed them to follow an usher. Faint pools of light hardly made an impact because, bloody hell, the whole room had been painted black.
It was not the elegant black of fashionable frescoed rooms, where a glossy background would be relieved by fine white borders and exquisitely coloured picture miniatures. Plain black. No fantasy garlands or candelabra, no naughty winged cherubs having fun in cute pursuits, no theatrical masks, tripods or torches, no myths, no monsters, no airy figures strewing flowers. Nothing. Just black walls, floor and ceiling. Black marble columns. Black drapes covering any windows. A black dais for the host.
It was set out like a mausoleum, the old-fashioned kind where a family could enter their personal tomb to feast with their ancestors. Within the vast space stood couches. Devoid of the usual coverlets and banquet cushions to make reclining comfortable, these were in an uncompromising hard material; on the bare floor, they had been positioned like endless lines of graves. There was no doubt why: each position was marked by a dark rectangular slab. These were modelled on tombstones.
Each slab carried a guest’s name. Dear gods. There was a lamp for each man, which lit his name. Each diner had to lie on his couch beside his own gravestone.
Although plenty of others had entered ahead of them, no warm buzz of conversation rose, only anxious silence. The brothers passed through the banks of dining couches, not meeting the eyes of their fellow guests, not even greeting those they knew. It was every man for himself tonight, even though they all feared sharing one terrible fate.
After the Camilli reached their places and grimly noted their memorial slabs, things began to happen. Around them, the other places quickly filled. Although they never saw the Emperor go past, Domitian had now stationed himself at the central part of the gathering; from there he was able to glare at his guests—or victims—as his black joke played out.
Last to arrive, the two consuls joined him. Guests who were near enough witnessed a formal embrace between the Emperor and his leading men: a curious mix of supposed affection and ill-concealed indifference. Vicirius Proculus and Laberius Maximus, who were they? Domitian barely greeted them.
Best to be nonentities. The consuls would serve their term—not even a full year but on a speeded up rota, deputed only for the period of September to December so the deserving could all get a chance to hold office. Afterwards, best to subside into oblivion, grateful to have escaped the top man’s suspicion, relieved to still be alive. Now it was November: a month to go. Pray no informer named them for something they had done—or more likely some imagined slight they had never even thought about. It would soon all be over.… Scuttle back to their estates. Hope to get a province out of it, so they could spend a few years far away. Try not to catch his attention again.
Into the darkness bled sounds of funereal flute music. A long train of young boys slithered out in a sinister dance, like ghosts emerging from caverns of the underworld. They were exquisite creatures, totally naked, painted black from head to toe. They writhed among the lines of couches, beckoning like slant-eyed satyrs. Old beyond their years, their sly gestures and smiles seemed an invitation to debauchery. Eventually, one by one, these pitch-black boys peeled off from the dance until each was positioned at the foot of a dining couch, where they offered an unspoken introduction: My name is Doom, I am your server today.…
Under cover of the dolorous flutes, Aulus snarled to his brother across the gap between their couches, intending his assigned creature to overhear: “I don’t care where we are—if that little bugger gropes me, he’ll get a backhander he’ll never forget!”
Quintus managed a half-smile. He extended an index finger, simply warning his own creepy attendant to note what his brother had said.
The boys must have been chosen for their prepubescent beauty under their black paint. They held themselves like professional dancers, chests out, feet pointed, arms at rest with hands together. There were men in the room who would normally have loved it, but even they were being very careful at this banquet.
At some signal, these attendants bent gracefully to help the guests remove their outdoor shoes, then their heavy togas. Irritated, Aulus shook his little monster off; he shed and bundled up his toga himself, stashed it at the end of his couch. He kept his shoes. Everyone else was in the process of reclining. Aulus remained upright. Making a rude gesture to his server, a mime of a man peeing in a lavatory, he glanced quickly at Quintus, although no words were spoken. As brothers, with barely two years between them, they had shared a lifetime of unobtrusive code, dodging the attention of parents, sister, nurses, pedagogues, tutors, women they fancied, men they loathed.…
Unobtrusively, Aulus Camillus sauntered back to the entrance.
“Call of nature,” Quintus explained to those around him. His brother’s one-handed shaking gesture had left no room for doubt. Still, someone had to raise the tone.
As Aulus made his retreat unobtrusively through the lines of couches, Quintus remained in position. He was holding their place, though a small enclave of revolt had been established. The Camilli had taken a joint decision. Since they were done for anyway, they would not be intimidated. Nobody would steer them. They would do as they liked.
Because it was expected no guest would dare to leave, or certainly not at that point, Aulus was never intercepted by staff. It would be a long evening and many guests were elderly, so in fact a few slaves had been positioned outside the room, holding pots and with towels over arms. Aulus walked past as if he had failed to notice them. He was pretending to head for the large public lavatory that lay beyond the clatter and glimmer of a massive ceremonial fountain.
In truth he was on reconnaissance. Quintus knew why. They had both been military tribunes, stationed in frontier forts. Aulus was inspecting the lines, reviewing the watch, listening to the night: He wanted to learn in advance exactly what was being set up outside the sinister chamber where the Senate was confined. If preparations for mass killing were in hand, he would spot them. At least he and Quintus would know.
What he found amazed him.
All the enormous audience rooms were now empty. When he walked beyond the vestibule, the wide space fronting the palace lay deserted. Previously crowded with soldiers, supervising officials and mobs of attendants, it was now hushed, oddly empty. Normally, even at night, there were members of the public wandering about, but today sightseers had been stopped from coming up here. Petitions would have to wait.
What had happened to the huge crowds of slaves who escorted the guests here? Gone. Completely gone. All dismissed.
Camillus Aelianus stood motionless, feeling the cold breeze of coming winter on his grim face and bare arms. It was night on the Palatine, possibly his last night on earth.
Only a plaintive wail from beside the grand fountain bowl let him know the empty outside areas still had a presence. He recognised the unhappy snivel. It was his own tiny slave, clutching his lantern. With him Aulus saw another small figure, a dwarf Domitian used to keep with him. The diminutive personage had been born with a head that was even smaller than it should be for his size. Toutou was so scared he was crying, though the imperial dwarf appeared to be offering kind words. “He got separated.”
“He’s mine. Toutou, come here to Master. Bring your lantern. Nothing to cry about.”
Quietly, Aulus retraced his steps to re-enter the black-painted dining room. When a chamberlain moved to prevent him bringing in the child, he made a grim joke about not losing valuable property. “He lost the others. I can’t leave him. He’ll get pinched. Anyway, he’s black enough! He’ll fit the decor.”
In Rome, property counted for everything. Toutou was a valuable commodity, so he was allowed to follow. He stuck so close, he was bumping against his master’s calf as they progressed back down the darkened room to the Camillus couches.