Master and God (47 page)

He had gained his high position at a very early age. He was called ‘this young man’ approvingly by the poet Statius. Abascantus was claimed as a friend by Statius, yet Flavia Lucilla, who knew the poet, his wife and also the chief secretary’s wife, reckoned any ‘friendship’ with Abascantus was one-way. Poets fluttered around the most senior freedmen, desperate to have their work noticed. Even Martial, whose writing Domitian apparently enjoyed, had pleaded with a chamberlain to slip his book onto the Emperor’s bedroom couch at some well-chosen moment.

Parthenius, another chamberlain, handled such requests now. He organised the Emperor’s personal existence; he lived in Domitian’s company and controlled access to him. Poets believed the Emperor was most likely to browse epigrams when he was secreted in his private quarters. This could have been lucrative for Parthenius, except that poets notoriously had no cash.
They
needed to extract money from the Emperor, which was why poems were so glutinous with flattery, flattery he believed: he was the new Jupiter, Jupiter on earth. He knew everything, saw everything, could cure sickness; his gaze struck terror like thunderbolts, he could kill with a thought . . .

Parthenius had told Abascantus that nowadays Domitian never read poems. They joked that Jupiter was not renowned for having his nose in a scroll. Heavenly Jove was too busy fornicating. People said Domitian did the same (presumably not manifesting himself in a shower of gold or disguised as a swan, else the rumour mill would have gone wild). Parthenius, a highly discreet state servant, neither confirmed nor denied any of it.

Parthenius was another
Tiberius Claudius
: the older generation. Even so, he and Abascantus thought the same way. One thing they knew was that the imperial administration would always outlive the current office holder. Emperors might come and go; their grand secretariats would roll on unflaggingly. It could be argued – and was certainly believed by some bureaucrats – that the secretariats, with their archives and forward planning and well-established means of conducting official business, were more important than the Caesar Augustus on the throne. That especially applied during the reign of a bad emperor. To a true bureaucrat, such periods were when the administration really came into its own. A weak emperor would be steered by his freedmen, as Claudius was by the magisterial Narcissus. A doomed despot might even be helped to remove himself, as Nero was by Phaon and Epaphroditus.

Titus Flavius Abascantus, the youthful high-flyer, was a person of such style he verged on the vain. He had hair he was proud of; he wore it thick and long, so he had that affected way of tossing back his luxuriant locks that always annoys everyone else. He was blond. In a man it never helps. Touch of the playboy.

Unquestionably one of the Empire’s finest minds, Domitian’s Abascantus had all the traditional talents: an all-round, incisive intelligence, elegant drafting skills, a clubbable personality, astute judgement of when and how to approach a difficult master. It went without saying, he had been educated to high standards at the palace; both his Latin and his Greek were perfect; he could dip into his treasure chest of literary allusions and produce an apt quotation like a jeweller plucking an expensive gem for a rich client. Better still, Domitian liked him.

Redraft that: Domitian
seemed
to like him. Domitian never relished having to be grateful to anybody else.

Abascantus became wealthy. He accumulated money and property. On duty, which was most of the time, he wore the white livery with gold trimmings that was standard at the palace – though he clad himself in a particularly lavish version, multi-thread cloth with heavy gilt embroidery. Plus bracelets and fistfuls of finger rings. Even earrings. And he walked in a miasma of extraordinary oriental perfume.

Some people disliked him. Inevitably there was jealousy of his talent, even after Abascantus ceased to push himself, merely enjoying his reputation and his position at the top. Minions ran around and did the work; one of his skills was knowing how to choose his juniors, then where and when to delegate, or on other occasions, when to step up before his Master and be seen to give personal attention to some delicate and demanding matter.

All of Domitian’s slaves and freedmen were celebrated for their calmness and for showing respect to visitors. So, Abascantus had been slickly groomed. He was never obsequious, yet always polite. Nobody had ever seen him lose his temper. He would listen, as if whatever was being said to him was genuinely interesting. He made even idiots feel they had a place. Up to a point it encouraged them to raise the standard of their contributions to papers and meetings.

Unfortunately, with the truly inept, that could only ever be up to a point. In contrast to Abascantus’ own glittering mind, idiots would always stand out as what they were.

Abascantus gave the impression the safety committee had been all his own idea. Perhaps it was; perhaps not. He was the kind of administrator who would steal other people’s cherished initiatives without even realising he had done it. (He would also distance himself smartly, once an initiative went wrong.)

He kept things informal, which meant there were comfortable seats, with cushions everywhere. Attendants greeted committee members by name, as if each was regarded as a special expert. To show how far he was different from normal hidebound bureaucrats, Abascantus served almond tuiles and peppermint tea. That is, he had them served, in silverware, by very polite young slaves.

‘May as well be civilised.’

Fuck me! My snooty Auntie Viniana would feel at home in this place.

‘This place’ was Nero’s Golden House, across the Forum from the Palatine: secure, luxurious, well staffed with clerks and messengers if needed, yet now slightly apart from the main centre of court business. Once past the Colossus which stood in the vestibule, awed visitors entered famous rooms, such as the octagonal dining room with a revolving ceiling from which perfumes had once rained down on Nero’s guests; there were intricate marble fountains; there were tall corridors painted with exquisite designs that would influence European art for many centuries. As soon as Domitian’s new Palatine palace was finished, all these grand rooms had been abandoned as regular office space. The Golden House was then ideal for an official committee whose subject was top secret.

Apparently serious, the Praetorian cornicularius, the chief secretary’s most recently co-opted member, asked where the freedman acquired his almond fancies. For once, the urbane Abascantus was thrown. He had no idea. A man of his status had probably never bought anything from a street stall or shop; it was doubtful if he even carried cash on him. He managed to mutter something about the work of palace pastry chefs. Still, Clodianus had wrong-footed him; the Guard had slyly established his own credentials as a true citizen of Rome. Abascantus lived remotely; the cornicularius was a regular in the Street of Patisserie Makers. Wherever that was.

The chief secretary had perhaps presupposed that a Praetorian would wolf food down with disgraceful manners, but Clodianus held a pastry daintily between one finger and thumb, while he talked good sense about anonymous letters: ‘Composed with the left hand to disguise the writing. I used to wonder why these people don’t just dictate their secret note to a slave – but of course if they do, then a slave knows.’

‘Do we take them seriously?’

‘We do. Such letters must always be scanned very carefully. I read this horrible batch you circulated, and while I am open to other opinions –’ The Guard made a graceful gesture with his tea bowl (though he did not pause to let other committee members interrupt) ‘to me these are all low grade. A mix of genuine mental illness and crackpot idealism: nothing that I anticipate will end in a serious attempt. Solo efforts, scribbled by loners in garrets, people who will never in reality emerge from their hidey-holes.’

‘You cannot detect organisation?’ asked Abascantus, to demonstrate his grasp of the issue.

‘No, although you clearly understand that is what we have to fear. But nothing suggests a plot. If we trace these senders, they can be dealt with in the usual way.’ Nobody wanted to ask what that was.

Someone did risk enquiring what would happen in practice if a deranged loner turned up with a weapon outside Domitian’s audience room.

Clodianus replied patiently. ‘As I’m sure you know, Vespasian made a public point of ending the tradition that visitors were checked for swords.’ The others all tried to look well informed. ‘Well, don’t believe everything you read in the
Daily Gazette
. The new ruling was meant to end senators having to endure the indignity of a search. Old Vespasian had had it done to him and he loathed the experience. But believe me, the Guards frisk everybody else.
We
carry swords, but otherwise, not so much as a pocket fruit-knife passes in. Even attendants are forbidden arms.’

‘Have I not seen Parthenius with a weapon?’ sniped Abascantus.

‘The bedchamber man?’ Clodianus smiled. ‘Yes, Domitian gave him a special dispensation. It makes the favoured Parthenius feel like a big meatball, I’m sure. Last time I looked, he had a bit of a toy in that fancy scabbard. I assume we discount Parthenius as an assassin?’ he threw back.

Abascantus assented primly. ‘Parthenius is one of the Emperor’s most trusted servants.’ The Guard had a shadow of a grin, as if he was thinking,
Top of my suspects list, then!

Clodianus continued his assessment of the most recent death threats, down-to-earth yet never disrespectful. Eventually Abascantus spotted what he had been up to. By a sleight of hand while he was talking, the hungry cornicularius had whisked all the nibbles his way and cleared the platter.

Even though they constantly lost out to him on refreshments, other members soon came to regard this Clodianus as their rock. He brought commonsense and clarity to what could all have been rather hysterical. Abascantus preened himself on his sound choice. (He overlooked the fact that his co-optee had been put forward in the first place by the Prefect, Casperius Aelianus.)

Once during a discussion, Abascantus caught a fly, crushing it between two fingers in mid air. It was a sign, should one be needed, of how sharp the chief secretary was. Nothing wrong with his reactions. Nothing squeamish there. As the freedman wiped his fingers clean on a napkin, he noticed the Praetorian shot him a fast gleam of admiration, the way someone would indicate ‘
Good catch!
’ on the move, while flinging beanbags at the gym. Even so, Abascantus always had a feeling that Vinius Clodianus viewed these proceedings with some sly undercurrent of satire.

For a long time that fly being caught was the most exciting thing that happened at their meetings.

I
t was comparatively quiet, the year many would call the Reign of Terror. Maybe that very quietness increased the fear. Nobody knew what was happening.

What’s he up to?

Who knows?

Rumours were everywhere.

Nonetheless, for domestic slaves buying leeks at a stall, for market-gardeners, for young men wrestling in a gymnasium, for toothless old folk dreaming in the sun, for small children trying to keep awake on uncomfortable outdoor benches while primary school teachers drearily intoned alphabets – and for their bored teachers – or for matrons having their hair dressed, most of the time nothing special happened. People who kept diaries would have found them dull reading afterwards.

No one with any sense did write a diary, in case it was ever held against them.

You never knew. That was the problem: doubt that festered and smelt like unnoticed spilt milk, all of the time. Everyone was clenching their buttocks in a permanent state of anxiety and the only people who did well out of
that
were apothecaries who sold greasy haemorrhoid ointments from discreet little booths down suburban side streets. For body-slaves who had to apply these suppositories to the inflamed rear ends of groaning masters, it was not such good news.

A good masseur could make a pile from fees and tips. Uncertain times caused psychosomatic bad backs. Hylus, the top masseur at the public baths that Vinius Clodianus liked, declared that an impacted disc was the signature symptom of political gloom.

Vinius had no problems with his spine; Hylus put this down to regular sex. Vinius smiled mysteriously so Hylus took that as affirmative. He knew when a client was much happier these days.

Booksellers were having a hard time. Statius had published his
Thebeid
two years earlier and it sank like a stone. (Not even the frankest critics told him that was because even as epics go, it was awful.) The first three books of his
Silvae
were now on sale, his occasional poetry. That little scroll struggled too, but then most of his friends and many members of the public had already heard him read the pieces. ‘The New Bath House of Claudius Etruscus’ held little interest for anyone except Claudius Etruscus, especially since the show-off freedman was not inviting the sweaty Roman public to enjoy his marble plunge pool and silver pipes, only his elite friends – the ones who had already sat through the poem at far too many dinner parties. Otherwise, Rutilius Gallicus was now not even old news but a forgotten man, and what was the point in praising his recovery from the nervous breakdown when he had since died of something else? An epitaph for an arena lion was limp; sceptics said the poem was so short, and weak, because Statius had shied away from saying this was the enormous lion killed by the unfortunate Glabrio when Domitian tried to polish him off. Statius chickened out. Still, he would not waste a poem he had started, so here were thirty rather soppy lines to the late Leo . . .

His friends expected free scrolls with florid inscriptions. Lucilla did buy one; she was thoughtful and supportive. Even she decided Statius was unworldly. When Gaius found the scroll hidden under a cushion, Lucilla was prepared to admit that, on being shown stylised verses entitled
Forest Leaves,
most readers would exit quickly from the bookshop and splurge their cash on street food.