The cornicularius assumed a boot-faced, solid attitude, still trying to reconcile his duty with his inclinations. He was giving nothing important away, yet his act must be unconvincing. Norbanus shot him filthy looks and although Domitian apparently took it all in without resistance, Gaius felt queasy.
Quite suddenly, his interrogation ended.
The Emperor gave him a long, hostile, knowing stare. Domitian did not say this time, I know that man! Nor did Vinius Clodianus mention their past encounters. The cornicularius had failed his test.
There was no recognition that this was the soldier who had saved the priest and sympathised with Domitian on the Capitol all those years before, a Praetorian Guard with long years of steady service, the prisoner whose suffering in Dacia had so shocked his master. Anyone else built up trust through shared experience; for the Emperor, the past was irrelevant. With his flawed temperament, Domitian only lived for the suspicions of the moment.
Domitian was convinced the Guard had betrayed him. But Clodianus had been true so far. Once the Emperor discounted his whole career of loyal service, everything changed. He swore the oath and took the money. But he had remained his own man. Themison had diagnosed it: to be constantly under suspicion while innocent may exasperate his associates until they do turn against him. Those who love him will feel rejected…
He understood that look in Domitian’s eyes. He knew what all those men must have gone through, those the Emperor invited into cosy confabulations at the same time as turning against them. Now he stood in danger himself. A cornicularius, with access to the entire Praetorian budget, could easily be accused of mishandling funds, for example. He, Vinius Clodianus, was in line for some harsh accusation of misdemeanour; for disgrace, exile, even death. Untrue; unjust. But impossible to refute, even if opportunity was given — which would not happen.
‘I want a list.’
‘Of course.’ A commissariat man knew always to agree; in his own time he could ignore instructions. ‘ Domine. ’ He meekly said ‘Master’ — but he would not call Domitian ‘God’.
What kind of list? This was the nub of the problem. Brooding intently, Domitian would not specify. He thought anyone loyal ought to know what was needed; to force their response was a good trial of their honesty. He did not care what they told him; he made up his own mind anyway. Any list would do. Any names would answer. The list need not be complete, it need not be relevant or truthful, it just had to provide him with his next victims. Confirm his suspicions. Validate his fear.
After a curt dismissal, the unhappy cornicularius marched off. He felt the Emperor follow him with another baleful stare. Norbanus remained behind, probably so Domitian could order him to discipline and destroy Clodianus. One of the slaves who assembled within call slipped past. Domitian had asked for a note tablet. He would make his own list.
That stare said Vinius Clodianus would be on it.
Domitian believed that he would die on September the eighteenth, at the fifth hour.
The previous day, someone gave him a gift of apples; he ordered them to be served tomorrow, saying darkly, ‘If I am spared!’
‘He is like some miserable uncle that nobody wants to sit beside at Saturnalia!’ Lucilla complained to Gaius. As Gaius remarked, at least it gave the conspirators a diary date.
‘The last day to choose is when he expects it,’ Lucilla demurred. Gaius smiled quietly. He was abstracted, still burdened by that meeting with Domitian, anxious for himself, more anxious for Lucilla. ‘Oh Gaius, surely we must hope to catch him by surprise!’
‘If he anticipates an attack, he may accept it. “ This is the prophecy, your time has come, give up now. ” Then killing him becomes much easier.’
Gaius thought the inexperienced Stephanus would falter. Stephanus might look strong, but a palace freedman had no martial training. They had brought in a gladiator to instruct him in basic attack moves. Parthenius produced one of Domitian’s own professionals, who helped them in return for the promise of freedom and presumably a large cash payment. Gaius never knew the fighter’s name. He had no great faith in what the gladiator could achieve with Stephanus in just a few days of secret working out.
Stephanus had bandaged his forearm as if he had some injury. He wore an obvious sling, like a hypochondriac, walking about the palace that way until everyone had seen him. By the end of a week, the Guards grew bored with searching him for concealed weapons. That was when Stephanus hid a dagger under the bandages.
When Gaius confessed his fears that Domitian was composing written details of the plot, Lucilla decided to do something; she pretended she had to see the Empress.
Domitia Longina rarely asked for her these days, not since Flavia Domitilla was exiled; the Empress was probably afraid Lucilla would want her to beg Domitian to let his niece return. Lucilla would not waste her breath. As far as she knew, Domitia had never once tried to influence a political decision.
Lucilla guessed where Domitian would be keeping his notes. Like innocent children, emperors tucked secret things under the pillows in their bedrooms. At the palace, she used her skills. She made friends with one of the naked boys who flitted about the court, generally up to mischief. She sent him in to look. Rather than be spotted lurking suspiciously, she told the lad she would come back for anything he found, after she had paid her respects to their imperial mistress.
When she entered the room, everyone was discussing Domitian’s fears for tomorrow. Apparently, he kept exclaiming dramatically, ‘There will be blood on the moon in Aquarius!’ Domitia retorted, in that case she would make sure she was away seeing friends.
The Empress allowed Lucilla to kiss the rouged regal cheek, then Lucilla began inspecting what Domitia’s maids had done to her hair, tweaking her coronet fussily.
‘You look pregnant! Do you know whose it is?’
‘Yes, Madam. He will be a good father.’
‘Well, that’s lucky.’
The inevitable happened. The boy had found Domitian’s note tablet. He brought it to Lucilla. Domitia spotted him. She demanded the tablet. She read it.
Holding up a mirror behind the Empress’s head, Lucilla craned to look over her shoulder. There, in Domitian’s fervent handwriting were packed columns of names, some of them accurate.
Domitia was silent for a long moment. Expensive jewels rose and fell with her strained breathing. She slammed shut the double-sided note tablet, almost crushing her own fingers with their burden of heavy antique rings.
‘The appalling little thief has no idea what this contains. Luckily I was shown it.’ She grasped the tablet firmly. Standing beside her chair, Lucilla stayed motionless, expecting the worst.
The Empress turned her head and looked straight at her. Domitia Longina of the compressed lips and uncompromising attitude murmured scornfully, ‘He will not be deterred by losing a few notes!’ Then, as if to herself: ‘These people need to hurry up, if they really mean business.’ Suddenly she passed the note tablet across. ‘Flavia Lucilla! Your man is a Praetorian?’ She seemed bored now. ‘Show this to him, will you? I presume he will know what to do about it.’
Astonished, Lucilla nodded faintly. Domitia turned immediately to someone else, closing her association with the tablet.
The Empress must be not unaware of the plot, not unaware that the names she had read were significant. She knew the implications if she told the plotters how close they were to detection.