When Quintilian was made imperial tutor, Nemurus was vain enough to be jealous. Lucilla had heard about it from friends, laughing because anyone could see Nemurus was not in the same league. Lucilla ran into him at the Capitoline Games, when the old literary group clustered to commiserate with Statius after his loss. Milling among them was her ex-husband.
Nemurus approached Lucilla with a manner so friendly she was suspicious at once. He had even brought her a present: Ovid’s love poems. The gift itself was unexpected, and it seemed an odd choice.
‘I should never have insisted you return all the books I had lent you, dear. I am proud to have fostered your love for reading. This is a peace offering.’ Lucilla had worked at the court long enough; she recognised a bribe. ‘Please, I need to talk to you… In private.’
Curiosity made her agree. As it seemed so urgent, they left the others temporarily and walked off together outside the theatre in the centre of Rome where the poetry contest had been held. Though October, the night was mild and the atmosphere civilised. They found a bench.
‘This is a delicate…’ Sighing, Lucilla waited for details. ‘They are rounding up philosophers and exiling them.’
It was not new. Even in Vespasian’s time it had happened. New expulsions were imposed by Domitian last year, with the philosopher Epictetus among his victims. More seemed unavoidable. One reason was that a hardened group of Flavian opponents, connected with the stoics, routinely insulted whoever was emperor. They had tackled Vespasian then Titus; Domitian must be due his turn — and like his predecessors, sooner or later he would be driven to react.
Nemurus, a stoic himself, was highly agitated. ‘I need a favour. Spies are everywhere. If anybody questions you about me, will you say that I only teach literature? That I never touch philosophy?’
‘Come clean: what have you done, Nemurus?’
‘After our divorce, perhaps unwisely I decided to devote myself to philosophy — which is of course merely the pursuit of a virtuous life.’
‘Who could argue with that?’ Lucilla knew the authorities did.
Shyly, Nemurus owned up: ‘For a time, I let my hair grow. I had a beard and wore the philosopher’s robe. I even refused to eat meat, and only took what nature gives us without the need to kill fellow creatures.’
Lucilla tried not to laugh. People had told her Nemurus was despondent after she left him, yet becoming a vegetarian and wearing a long beard seemed an extreme reaction to divorce. ‘How Greek! But, sadly for my profession, there is no law against terrible hair.’
‘Please do not joke. My beard may have been noticed by the wrong people.’
‘Well, dear, I can truthfully say I knew nothing about it.’ Lucilla wondered what Nemurus looked like with a beard — and winced. ‘But why would anybody ask me?’
She saw Nemurus’ face cloud. ‘Your Praetorian Guard might take a vindictive interest.’
‘No! He has no reason to pick on you.’
‘He was staring at us earlier outside the theatre,’ Nemurus insisted. Lucilla thought he must have imagined this. ‘It is not the first time he imposed his baleful presence!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Once he marched into a lecture I was giving.’
‘Vinius?’
‘Had to be him. One-eyed man, scowling like thunder. Came and sat at the back.’
‘So what was your lecture?’ demanded Lucilla, in amazement.
‘On metre. “Dactylic Hexameters or Hendecasyllabic Iambs? Epic glide or elective limp — the poet’s dilemma”.’
When talking informally, Lucilla knew, Nemurus had insightful views on how poets chose their metre and line length. Given wine, he could even be amusing on scansion. Set on a public platform, however, he was a nervy speaker, who muttered down at his notes even though he was trying to show off. She commented with a smile, ‘That must have been uncomfortable — for both of you.’
‘He did not linger!’ Nemurus admitted.
They had been married, successfully at one time. Now anybody watching would have seen them burst into shared laughter, ruefully and with their heads together, like children giggling at a rude word.
‘Well,’ Lucilla assured him kindly, ‘I shall protect you. But Vinius and I are not as close as you think. We never even speak these days.’
‘I find that odd.’ Nemurus sounded sarcastic, as he rose to depart. ‘Especially as the man is standing in the shadows over there, observing us right now.’
Lucilla refused to look that way, but she made a point of jumping up and kissing Nemurus on the cheek before he left her. Startled, he made a clumsy half-response, but she dodged that and sat down again.
She remained waiting on the bench, pulling her light stole up over her hair and rearranging the bangles on her arm.
As she expected, Vinius came into the open and marched over.
‘Cosy scene. Does he want you back? He bears gifts, I see!’
‘Rather out of character. There must have been a remainder sale.’ This was disloyal to Nemurus but Lucilla hoped to distract Vinius. ‘Ovid. The Art of Love contains advice for women on how to look attractive — “a round-faced girl should pile her hair in a topknot” — hardly news to a trained hairdresser.’ At the end of the poem, Lucilla happened to know, were extremely frank lists of positions for lovemaking. Some she would never have thought of. Most seemed feasible. She wondered: had Nemurus been using this book as pornography? ‘This will interest you, Vinius — Ovid was exiled, for mysterious reasons, which may involve promiscuous relations with the Emperor Augustus’ raunchy daughter. They stuck him in Tomis which is, I believe, at the far edge of Dacia.’
‘Poor bloody bugger!’ exclaimed Vinius forcefully.
Lucilla tightened her grip on the scroll and rattled her bangles again. ‘Why are you spying on my ex-husband?’
‘The man does not concern me.’
‘So I told him. But you once went into a lecture he gave?’
‘Just curious. When you were married, did you have to knit his socks?’
Lucilla tried not to react. ‘His mother makes them. Vinius, don’t menace him; leave him alone, will you?’
‘Oh, have I got him worried?’ demanded Gaius cheerfully.
‘Don’t abuse your office. I rely on you to be fair.’
‘Fair?’ Rely?
‘Your decency was the first thing that struck me when you worked with the vigiles. Vinius, I want to believe in you. There have to be good men, when everyone swims in a sewer of treachery.’
Gaius listened, looking unemotional.
‘I wish you were back there,’ Lucilla told him in a morose voice. ‘You made your own choices. You were aware of human failings, yet you stood for enlightenment. You were honest. You were even kindly.’
‘Within reason.’
‘I would take your reason over Domitian’s fake benevolence any day. Don’t lose your humanity.’
‘You think I changed?’
‘Dacia changed you.’
‘ You changed me.’
‘Do not blame me. Working for the Emperor is your own choice.’
Gaius thought Lucilla’s assessment was right. Society had tipped up and gone topsy-turvy. While Domitian pretended to nurture correct behaviour, he undermined it. Everyone now behaved like shits. As the despot supposedly reinforced Rome’s moral system, he was destroying it. He, Vinius Clodianus, was helping. He was an instrument of the police state. He had taken the oath. He accepted the not inconsiderable money. He followed orders.
In doing so, had he lost his own values and his independence?
Lucilla stood and began to walk away. She did not give Vinius the farewell kiss she had given Nemurus; Vinius noted that bitterly. As she marched off to find her friends again, he called out one last appeal.
‘Flavia Lucilla! I don’t suppose you have ever considered that somewhere in all the years we have known one another, I might have fallen in love with you?’