“I received a new discourse,” said Epaphroditus, “only yesterday
…” His voice trailed off.
“What! And you’re only just now mentioning it? Come, read it aloud,” said Martial.
“I only had time to quickly scan it. I’m not sure…”
“Don’t tell me it’s no good,” said Martial. “Has the poor exile lost his wit, stuck in Sarmizegetusa?”
“No, it’s not that. To be candid, I’m not sure it’s safe to keep the thing. It may be… seditious.”
“Read it quickly then, and afterwards we’ll burn it.” Martial laughed.
Epaphroditus smiled uneasily. Lucius knew what he was thinking but would not say aloud: none of them completely trusted Martial any longer, because of his favoured status with the emperor. Martial hardly seemed the type to betray old friends, but Epaphroditus had learned to be cautious over the years. It was one thing to gossip about the emperor’s love life – everyone from saltmongers to senators did that – but it was something else to read aloud a work by a banished philosopher.
“I don’t mean that the discourse is overtly seditious,” said Epaphroditus. “Dio is far too subtle for that. But this work could be seen as… teasing the emperor.”
“You’ve set my curiosity ablaze,” said Martial. “What’s the subject?”
“Hair.”
“What?”
“Hair. A learned discourse on hair and its role in history and literature.”
They all laughed. Domitian was notoriously sensitive about his premature baldness. In his younger days he had been famously vain about his chestnut mane, and once, as a gift to a friend, he had even written a monograph on his secrets for hair care. After Domitian’s ascension to power, copies of the treatise proliferated overnight; every literate person in Roma had read it, but no one dared to mention it in the author’s presence. Was Dio’s encomium on hair meant to mock the balding emperor who had exiled him?
“Even the emperor cannot avoid the ravages of time,” observed Martial. He rose and circled the statue. “But our friend Melancomas shall never grow bald, or fat, or wrinkled, and if his lustrous hair should fade, it can always be repainted. How I envy his unchanging perfection! Ah, well, if our host is not going to share that new discourse from Dio, I’m off. I should get a bit of work done before the sun sets. Maybe I can make something of that notion about Pygmalion and Medusa after all. Or perhaps I’ll write a letter to Dio and give him the idea as a gift.”
“I’ll come with you.” Epictetus reached for his crutch and got to his feet with some difficulty. “I dine tonight with a prospective new patron. He wants to meet at the Baths of Titus, so I’d better be off. Are you leaving as well, Pinarius?”
Lucius began to rise, but Epaphroditus touched his arm.
“No, Lucius, stay a bit longer.”
When they were alone, Lucius looked expectantly at his host. “You look worried, Epaphroditus.”
“I am.” The older man sighed. “By all the gods, Lucius, what do you think you’re doing?”
“What are talking about, Epaphroditus?”
“I know the identity of your mystery woman.”
“How?”
“Lucius, Lucius, I’ve known you since you were a boy! Have you ever been able to keep a secret from me?”
Only about the role that Sporus played in Nero’s death, thought Lucius, but he said nothing and let Epaphroditus continue.
“Even before you spoke of her chastity, I knew who she must be. I’ve seen the two of you when you meet in public – the stiff greeting, the averted gazes, the intentional distance you keep between you. And I happen to know that she was absent from Roma during the period you spoke of. I must admit, I find it ironic that the vow she would not keep for a goddess, she will keep for a man. I won’t say her name aloud – what slaves don’t overhear, they can’t repeat – but you know whom I mean. Am I right?”
Lucius gazed at the Flavian Amphitheatre, which was surrounded by scaffolds and cranes; a new tier was being added to accommodate even more spectators. “Yes, you’re right.”
Epaphroditus shook his head. “Lucius, Lucius! What a terrible risk you’re taking. When I think of my promise to your father, to look after you-”
“I’m a grown man now and responsible for myself, Epaphroditus. Your promise to my father was long ago discharged.”
“Still, the danger-”
“We were always very careful, very discreet. I’m not even seeing her any more. We love each other at a distance.”
Epaphroditus shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “You don’t understand the gravity of the situation. Events are about to take place that will affect us all.”
“Events?”
“I didn’t want to talk about this in front of… the others.”
“In front of Martial, you mean?”
“Or Epictetus, either. Or even you, for that matter.” Epaphroditus paused to collect his thoughts. To Lucius he suddenly looked quite old, and more worn with cares than Lucius had seen him in many years. “You know I still have friends in the imperial household, even after so many changes and so many years. Sometimes I hear about things before they happen. My sources demand my utmost discretion, so usually I keep what I know to myself. Yes, I keep things even from you, Lucius. But there’s no point in shielding you now, seeing the danger you’re in. Domitian is about to revive the office of censor. He intends to assume the powers of the magistracy himself, permanently.”
“Didn’t his father do the same?”
“Yes, for a limited time and for a specific purpose. Vespasian conducted a census. That is one of the traditional functions of the censor, but it is not the function which interests Domitian.”
“I don’t understand. What else does a censor do?”
“Lucius, Lucius! Did you learn nothing of history when you were growing up? I know your father supplied the very best tutors for you.”
Lucius shrugged. “Why bother to learn about the institutions of the long-dead Republic, when all power now resides in the hands of one man and the rest of us count for nothing?”
Epaphroditus stifled his exasperation. “Once upon a time, when Roma was ruled by the Senate, the censor wielded great power – in some ways he was the most powerful man in the Republic, because he was responsible for keeping the official list of citizens, and it was the citizens who elected the magistrates. People didn’t vote as individuals, but in various blocks, determined by their wealth and other indicators of status. The censor determined in which block a man voted. That was important, because the voting blocks of the elite counted for more than those of the common rabble. And the censor could strike a citizen from the rolls altogether, which meant that citizen lost his right to vote.”
“And why might a censor do such a thing?”
“If a man committed a criminal offense, for example. Or, more to the point, if the man was guilty of offending public morals.”
“And who was the judge of that?”
“The censor, of course. And so, stemming from his duty to keep the voting rolls, the censor acquired another duty: to maintain public morals. If the censor declared a man guilty of immorality, he could not only strike that man from the voting rolls, but could deprive him of other rights, even throw him out of the Senate. The censorship began with a high purpose, but quickly devolved into a political tool, a way to punish enemies and destroy careers.”
Lucius shook his head. “I still don’t understand. Domitian already can install any man he wants in the Senate, or remove any man he pleases. And what do the senators matter, anyway? They have no real power. Never mind that pathetic decree they recently passed – ‘It is forbidden for the principal officer of the state to put to death any of his peers.’ The notion that the emperor is the first among equals is a fantasy, and the idea that they can constrain him with laws is wishful thinking. So why does Domitian want to make himself censor for life?”
“The office will provide him with a new and very powerful tool. Consider: if the emperor wishes to punish an enemy or a rival, and does so for no purpose but to protect his own authority, he acts as a tyrant. Conversely, he could charge his enemy with a real crime, like embezzling or murder, but that would require producing actual evidence. But in his role as censor, Domitian can cast himself as the guardian of public morality, acting for the good of everyone.”