The Course of Honour Page 3

  ‘Do not let this fall into other hands,’ Antonia reminded him, obviously repeating previous instructions. ‘If you are stopped, say you are travelling to my estate at Bauli. Give the letter only into the Emperor’s own hands, then wait in case he wishes to question you.’

  The messenger left. Pallas was not a type Caenis cared for. He was a Greek from Arcadia, visibly ambitious, whose appeal to Antonia struck her as incongruous. He went on his way with a jaunty step which seemed out of place. But perhaps his carefree manner would disguise the importance of his mission from soldiers and spies.

  The two women sat for a moment.

  ‘Remove every trace from your note tablets, Caenis.’

  Caenis held the tablets above the flame of a lamp to soften the wax a little, then methodically drew the flat end of her stylus through each line of shorthand. Staring at the newly smoothed surface, she said in a low voice, ‘It is useless, madam. I would have erased the letter in any case, but every document you ever dictate to me remains in my mind.’

  ‘Let us hope your loyalty matches your memory,’ Antonia replied ruefully.

  ‘You may have faith in both, madam.’

  ‘That will be fortunate for Rome! You will remain in this house,’ Antonia stated. ‘You may speak to no one until these matters are resolved. It is for the safety of Rome and the Emperor, for my safety – and for your own.’ Faint distaste coloured her voice: ‘Do you have male followers who will look for you?’

  ‘No, madam.’ Only that morning Caenis had encountered a man who might have troubled her thoughts for many long hours, but tonight had obliterated that. ‘I have one friend,’ she went on, matter-of-factly contributing to the discussion. ‘A garland-girl called Veronica. She may come asking about me, but if the door porter says I am working for you, madam, she will be satisfied.’ Veronica had never taken any interest in Caenis’ duties as a scribe.

  ‘Well, I am sorry to have to imprison you here.’

  ‘I shall try to endure it, madam,’ Caenis replied, smiling. She might as well acknowledge what it would mean to be living in Livia’s House.

  There was nothing for them to do. It would be weeks, if not longer, before Pallas reached the Bay of Naples and the Emperor reacted. The messenger might never get there.

  Even if Pallas did reach Capri, from all Caenis had heard there must be a good chance that Tiberius would choose to reject what Antonia was telling him. He was moody and unpredictable, and nobody likes to hear they have been betrayed. Even if Antonia’s measured words convinced him, there might be nothing he could do: the Praetorian Guards held absolute power in Rome. Arresting their commander appeared to be impossible. They would defend Sejanus to the last.

  His agents were everywhere. Only the unexpectedness of Antonia’s action could possibly outwit him.

  III

  For Caenis this was in many ways the most significant period of her life. It all seemed too easy. Everyone looked too happy to welcome her. Caenis, who distrusted smiles, felt off balance for some time.

  Living in a private house was wonderful. She had been allocated her own tiny sleeping-cubicle instead of sharing with Veronica. She liked both the sense of belonging and the privacy.

  Born and bred in the Palace, Caenis could have no country and no relations of her own; she was one of ‘Caesar’s family’ but that title just made her imperial property. In some ways it had been good luck. It had spared her the indignity of standing naked in the market-place shackled among Africans, Syrians and Gauls, with notes of her good character and health hung around her neck while casual eyes derided her and rough hands pinched her breasts or forced between-her thighs. She had escaped long-term insecurity, real filth, savage cruelty, regular sexual abuse. She understood that; she was grateful up to a point.

  Of her father she knew nothing; of her mother only that she must have been a slave too. Caenis had presumably stayed with her mother while she was very small; sometimes a smear of memory would catch her on that threshold between waking and shallow sleep. Before she was committed to the nursery where bright brats were taught to write, her mother had pierced her ears even though all she had to hang there were pebbles on rags of string. She must have supposed her daughter was then ready to receive orbs of gold from susceptible men. There was always that foolish presumption that a slavegirl must look pretty. Caenis never had been; she knew her cleverness was the better bargain, but it made her sad all the same.

  She had been clever from the start. As a child frighteningly so. She learnt to disguise it, to escape spite in the infants’ dormitory, then later to use it so a usefully vibrant girl like Veronica would want to be her friend. Though a solitary child, she understood that she needed other people. As she grew older her resentments had dulled, so she neither tormented herself nor worried the overseers by appearing rebellious. But she possessed a keen drive to achieve the best she could.

  That was why working for Antonia was so important. Encouraged by the new confidence now placed in her, Caenis began to acquit herself outstandingly. Having once caught Antonia’s notice, every opportunity was hers. Straight-backed and calm, she worked as if nothing significant had happened – winning further trust from her mistress for her restrained reaction to events.

  Diadumenus, who must have been told what had happened, showed occasional signs of jealousy. He was still Chief Secretary, but Caenis had a special quality to offer. She was a woman, and Antonia at seventy was short of female companionship. Her lady wanted neither a chit she could bully nor a monster who would try to bully her. Antonia needed someone with good sense; someone she could talk to; someone she could trust absolutely. She had found all that, though she did not yet know Caenis well enough to admit it. But they had shared an act of bravado (and of tragedy too, for. Antonia had condemned her own daughter). They were now locked in a secret, awaiting the outcome. And if Sejanus discovered that Antonia had denounced him, there would be fatal results for both mistress and slave.

  Life went on. An appearance of normality was crucial. Visitors came and went. For secrecy’s sake Caenis was forbidden to approach them, but since she was tied to the house she was volunteering for any work she could. This included keeping a diary of visitors. Caenis was a secretary who could remain virtually invisible – while thoroughly inspecting all the persons whose names featured on her lists.

  Among Antonia’s private friends were wealthy men of consular rank such as Lucius Vitellius and Valerius Asiaticus, who sometimes brought clients of their own. Caenis soon spotted among the names of Vitellius’ escort that of Flavius Sabinus, one of the two young men she had directed at the Palace. He currently held the citic post of aedile so he qualified for an introduction here, although actually gaining admittance had required the patronage of a much more senior senator. This unofficial court circle could be a good place for impoverished new men from the provincial middle class to acquire influence. Here they would be meeting Caligula and Gemellus, the heirs to the Empire. They would mingle with ambassadors. They could even, if they wanted to risk ridicule, make the acquaintance of Claudius, Antonia’s surviving son, who because of various disabilities took no part in public life.

  The brothers came from Reate; Caenis burrowed it out. Reate was a small town in the Sabine hills – a birthplace Roman snobs would mock. Their family arranged contracts for seasonal labour and had made their money in provincial tax collection. Their father had also been a banker. They would be notables in their own country, though in Rome, amongst senatorial pedigrees that trailed back to the Golden Age, they must be struggling. Since Sabinus had qualified for the Senate the family must own estates worth at least a million sesterces, but it was obviously new money and if it were all tied up in the land she could well believe their day-to-day budget was tight.

  With some difficulty, since no one knew or wanted to know anything about him, she discovered from the usher that the younger brother, Vespasian, had returned to his military duties abroad.

  On 17 October a letter came to Antonia,
brought by Pallas from Capri. She read it in private, then stayed in her room. Pallas did not reappear.

  By nightfall word had run through the household notwithstanding, and the next day the results of Antonia’s action became known throughout Rome: to sidestep the Praetorian Guards, the Emperor had called into his confidence past and present commanders of the city police force. One, Macro, had been secretly appointed as the new commander of the Praetorians. He entered Rome incognito and laid plans with Laco, the current Prefect of the Vigiles. After taking elaborate precautions, Macro had persuaded Sejanus to enter the Temple of Apollo on the Palatine where the Senate were meeting – only a few yards from Antonia’s house. A letter from the Emperor to the Senate was to be read. Sejanus let himself be persuaded that this would be offering even greater honours to himself.

  Once Sejanus had gone inside the Temple, Macro dismissed the escort of Guards, ordering them back to their camp (which ironically Sejanus himself had built for them in the north part of the city). He replaced them with loyal members of the city Vigiles. Macro himself then went to the Praetorian camp to assume command, confine the Guards to barracks and prevent a riot. Sejanus meanwhile discovered that the letter from Tiberius was a bitter denunciation of himself. Striding from the Temple, he was arrested by Laco, the Prefect of the Vigiles, and hustled off to the state dungeon on the Capitol. The Guards did riot, but it was soon controlled.

  Sejanus and his fellow conspirators were executed. The strangled body of Sejanus was dumped on the Gemonian Steps which led down from the Capitol, where it was abused by the public for three days before being dragged off with hooks and thrown like rubbish into the Tiber. His statues were torn down from the Forum and theatres. His children were killed too, the teenaged daughter being raped first, to spare the public executioner from the crime of killing a virgin. Rome had harsh rules, but they did exist.

  Antonia was acclaimed as the saviour of Rome and of the Emperor. Praising her role in uncovering the conspiracy, Tiberius offered her the title Augusta, with the formal honours of an empress. This she declined with the modesty her admirers would expect.

  From the middle of October until well into November no visitors were admitted to Livia’s House. Some normal life continued. A certain amount of correspondence had to be written, and the correct procedures of daily life were grimly observed. Meanwhile Antonia’s daughter, Livilla, had been brought to the house and consigned, with the Emperor’s permission, to her mother’s custody.

  Unlike previous errant daughters of the Imperial House, those who merely led scandalous, adulterous lives for their own pleasure, but who had refrained from poisoning the sons of emperors or letting themselves be manipulated into damaging the stability of Rome, Livilla was not to be exiled to a remote island or executed by soldiers. She had shamed the rigorous principles of her mother, Antonia, and those of her even more famously strict grandmother Octavia. She had been stupidly deceived by Sejanus. She had defiled the house of Augustus and dishonoured her own children, the grandchildren and rightful heirs of the Emperor. Her position saved her from the public executioner, yet her fate was merciless.

  Antonia took Livilla into her own house, locked her in a room alone, and left her there until she starved to death.

  IV

  Grief and rejoicing each have their moments, and then fade. The screams and pleas for help from Livilla were reduced to weakening groans, then silence. Those who had been shaken by having to overhear what happened recovered as much as they ever would.

  Gradually the House of Livia relaxed, returning like Rome itself to what passed for normal domesticity. Certainly a shadow had been lifted from the Empire and the city was full of relief.

  Years passed. Nightmares ended. Individual lives improved. That was why, when the younger brother of Flavius Sabinus opened the door to a certain office in the administration sector on the Palatine nearly two years later, Caenis was singing.

  She was singing quite loudly because she thought there was nobody nearby. Besides, she liked to sing. Livia’s House would hardly be the place for it.

  She stopped abruptly.

  ‘Hello!’ cried Vespasian. ‘You look very efficient!’

  He shouldered himself in. Caenis put on an expression of pious surprise. She had been aware that his posting to Thrace must have ended. She had somehow expected him.

  Men of his status were not supposed to saunter into the imperial suites looking for female scribes. Completely unabashed, Vespasian took a good look round.

  Antonia had borrowed a large office for her copy clerks. She ran a frugal household and was more ruthless in seizing advantages than her sovereign reputation might suggest. Tiberius would once have been mean enough to demand rent even from a widowed relative, but no one had ever told him she was here; he suspected that people deceived him, so inevitably they did. Still, Antonia could act as she liked nowadays. She was the Mother of Rome.

  The room had a depressed air. It was cold. It smelt of hibernating animals. The paintwork on the frescos was faded. In the Emperor’s absence large areas of his palace were declining in neglect; unsupervised, the imperial stewards took a slack attitude to redecorating any quarters they did not wish to lounge in themselves. Caenis, a girl who could get things done, intended to make friends with the prefect of works.

  Vespasian prodded at a patch of wall plaster which was effervescing oddly: ‘Bit rough.’

  ‘The whole of Rome is collapsing,’ Caenis observed. ‘Why should the Emperor’s house be different?’

  Tiberius had a desultory approach to public construction; he began a Temple of Augustus and restoring the Theatre of Pompey, but both remained unfinished. He had occupied the Palace only fitfully before retiring from Rome. Vespasian grumbled, ‘He should build properly. He should build more, build better, encourage others, and set a decent standard.’

  He turned his critical attention to Caenis.

  She showed distinct signs of improvement. She looked clean and neat; Antonia’s staff were allowed to attend the women’s sessions at the public baths. Her dark hair was knotted at the nape of her neck and she had acquired a better quality dress. Although she worked at a rickety table with a fillet of wood to prop up one leg, she occupied her place with an air of grand possessiveness. She had been promoted to be in charge. None of her juniors was present; she stayed here late on purpose, adoring her authority as she read and corrected their work. Faced with somebody she knew, Caenis openly glowed.

  The returning tribune absorbed everything; she was sure he had noticed the subtle change in her situation.

  ‘A tyrant of the secretariats!’ he teased as he approached. He seemed larger and even fitter than she remembered, deeply tanned by outdoor army life. ‘That marvellously frightening glint in the eye . . .’ Caenis ignored this.

  He had wandered right up to her table. Perching on the edge, he went on gazing around as if even a run-down cubbyhole in the Palace were new to him. An oil lamp tilted alarmingly. Caenis leant down hard with her elbows so the table would not rock over and tip him on the floor. He knew she was doing it but made no attempt to shift his weight. She folded her hands atop the tablets which she had just finished sorting to prevent Vespasian (who was craning his head) from reading them.

  ‘Good evening, lord.’

  Flavius Vespasianus had a rare but wonderful grin. ‘You’re mellowing. Last time I was told to skip over the Styx!’

  ‘The lady Antonia’s secretariat respects the privilege of rank.’ Caenis was now allowed to be as ironic as the person she was addressing would accept. Authority attached to her through the importance of her mistress and the responsibility of her post. Antonia’s visitors treated her with deference. ‘Are you rich yet, tribune?’ she taunted.

  ‘I shall never be rich; but I have brought you a present. Don’t get excited; it’s nothing to wear.’ He had come completely unattended. There was a rather greasy parcel squashed under his arm.

  ‘Can you eat it?’ she giggled unexpectedly.


  ‘I owe you a sausage.’

  ‘And this is it? After two years, lord?’

  ‘I had to go to Thrace,’ he told her gravely. ‘If I had missed the sea-crossing it would have been the end of my career.’ He spoke as if he had seriously considered missing his ship anyway. Caenis felt an odd flutter. She ignored it stalwartly. He handed her the parcel. ‘I presume you are a girl who likes pickled fish?’ She loved pickled fish. ‘Manage a stuffed egg?’

  ‘Only one?’

  ‘I ate the other on the way.’

  Genuinely shocked, she exclaimed before she could stop herself, ‘In the street, lord?’

  ‘In the street,’ he returned placidly. For a moment she thought him a real country boy, innocent of his offence, then his gaze danced on her troubled face; he knew. Caenis frowned with a mixture of pleasure and puzzlement. She imagined him, shambling through Rome’s clamorous streets. Probably he would carry it off. Probably no one even noticed: a knight, a tribune newly released from military service and qualified for the highest administrative posts, all on his own, carrying a parcel, munching a stuffed egg.

  ‘Deplorable,’ he agreed wickedly. ‘So: here’s a man who pays his debts.’

  ‘Outside my experience!’

  Her wry comment on the harshness of her moral world made him pause, then he continued, ‘I’ve been trying to find you for days. I’m such a permanent fixture the sausage-maker thinks I must be spying on him for his wife. I would have arrived earlier today, but the stuff was wrapped in some second-rate poet’s cast-off manuscript. You know how it is – you glimpse one half-good phrase then an hour goes by with you stood on the same street corner unravelling the paper trying to find the last appalling verse . . . Well, can we share this?’

  Caenis was beginning to feel frightened. Every word he uttered snatched at her sympathy. Alone with her for the first time, he made no effort to be gallant; nor did he fuss. Perhaps he supposed knights and senators were always dropping in with picnics. Those brown eyes knew exactly what he was doing to her. Suddenly he tried to beg for information: ‘There were some grand events in Rome after I went back to Thrace. Were you aware what lay in store for Sejanus?’