Clodianus could have crashed in, using a shoulder, but he chose the quiet method. He had taken a key from Parthenius. That way, once they reached the bedroom, his arrival went almost unnoticed during the crucial first moment.
He assessed the scene: a mess. A total bloody mess. But retrievable.
Domitian and Stephanus were grappling on the bedroom floor. Both looked exhausted. Stephanus had stabbed Domitian in the groin. There was blood, blood everywhere. The Emperor had grabbed the dagger with his hands; his fingers were lacerated. The dagger was lying a long way from where they were now.
Stephanus had facial wounds. Domitian had tried to gouge out his eyes. Stephanus must have been stabbed too at some point; his condition looked critical.
Someone else was there, someone who should not have been. Crouching petrified was the long-haired boy who tended Domitian’s personal gods in a bedroom shrine. Palpitating with terror, the Lares boy had frozen beside the massive bed. The Emperor must have screamed for him to bring the knife he kept under its scented, silken pillows. A scabbard had skittered across the marble. All the boy was holding was a pommel with its blade removed: again, Parthenius’ work.
Attendants loyal to Domitian were battering at other doors. Time had run out.
Armed with daggers by Parthenius, the men who came in with Clodianus moved in and tackled Domitian. Entellus, Sigerius, Maximus stabbed him, one after another, a further seven times. Still, he refused to die.
The squad stood back, shaking their heads at Domitian’s resilience. The freedmen were cool enough; they did well. Only the gladiator had no heart for it. Elsewhere in the imperial suite, doors abruptly crashed inwards. There were shouts; people approaching. Clodianus signalled the others to make themselves scarce. They disappeared, leaving a swathe of bloody footprints. Stephanus stayed, too badly hurt to escape yet struggling again to come at Domitian.
Attendants burst in. Making a concerted effort, they pulled Stephanus away from Domitian and killed the steward. Fair enough. It was always convenient if a murderer was finished off at the scene. No messy trial, one neat culprit to be blamed. You could almost wonder cynically if Parthenius had planned that.
Parthenius came into the room.
Domitian was gasping grotesquely, and still snaking sluggishly around the floor. Seeing a Praetorian, Clodianus, his protege, he desperately tried to speak. Clodianus gestured to the others to stay back. He heard Parthenius give calm orders to the servants. That still left the problem.
What was your thinking when you involved yourself?
He was going to die anyway…
Clodianus trod carefully across the floor. Astonishing how far one small drop of blood could spread, as it flattened on the marble in a fine spray. Astonishing how much other gore from the two combatants had spurted, pooled and jellied. Above one glistening, bloodstained area flies already circled with morbid fascination.
Domitian was now nearly gone. His eyelids drooped, probably no longer seeing anything. Impossible to say whether he knew this man standing above him, or realised what his final assailant was about to do.
Without a word, Clodianus drew his sword. He knelt beside the Emperor and thrust it in hard. The flesh closed and gripped his blade, but he twisted it out with the savage pull that legionaries used when despatching an enemy: a second wrench that made the original blow certain.
He did not need to look. Domitian was now dead.
Clodianus pulled off his red tunic, hauling it past his belt and sword scabbard. He wiped the blood from his sword, cleaning it thoroughly, sheathed it and tossed the wet garment away. Underneath he wore another tunic, like a civilian. As he walked past Parthenius, he met the chamberlain’s eyes and nodded. Mutual respect passed between them. They would not meet again.
In the enormous public spaces, no one seemed aware anything had happened. He walked, with his hand casually on his sword pommel, back through the palace, past the oblivious Guards on duty, out into the shock of brilliant September sunshine.
With a steady pace, Gaius Vinius — never again to be Clodianus — retraced his route down from the Palatine, back across the Forum and along the Vicus Longus. The same dogs were asleep in almost unchanged positions and the same baby was fretfully crying. This time he had the sun behind him. He could feel it, warm and cheering on his back, as he returned to the Sixth Region where for years he and the woman of his heart had rented an apartment, the apartment they were now leaving.
He reached Plum Street, found his waiting girl, picked up her hand luggage, shouldered his own, whistled the dog, and walked them briskly to the station house of the First Cohort of vigiles. Scorpus had kept the cart safe for him: a builder’s cart bought from his brother and already laden, an unassuming dray with a comfortable ox, nothing to make anyone look twice. Builders’ carts had a special licence to be on the streets during the normal ban on wheeled vehicles. Leaving now, they would avoid the incoming surge of evening traffic.
‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
Gaius was withdrawn now, in shock. Lucilla accepted his silence. He would talk in due course; he would tell her everything. She draped a cloak around him, taking the reins herself. She pointed out how this was hardly an unusual sight on the Empire’s roads — a lazy scoundrel husband simply staring at the scenery, while his poor pregnant wife did all the hard work… Somewhere deep, a response glimmered; Gaius dropped one hand onto her lap. Just drive, darling.
They would turn out onto the high road, close to the Saepta Julia, as if they were heading past the Horologium and Mausoleum of Augustus, en route for northern Italy. Instead, they would turn off left, drive across the Field of Mars and reach the Tiber. Crossing Nero’s Bridge, they would change direction one more time, to follow the river down to the coast at Ostia, where their ship was waiting.
Behind them in countless local neighbourhoods, citizens were still enjoying lunch and their rest period, unmoved by events on the Palatine. There at the heart of the city, important men had frantic work to do, but nothing of this would become public until tomorrow. Today, Rome, the eternal, the Golden City, lay bathed in sunlight peacefully. There were no alarms. It was a quiet afternoon on the Via Flaminia.