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  He had to go up there. It was expected.

  He stared as deferential vigiles produced protective boots and thick, hooded cloaks for the milling dignitaries. Someone must have hastily raided the cohorts’ stores for brand new boots. It would be unacceptable to push the illustrious corns of a consul into a pair that had been worn already by some horny-soled freedman stomping out sticky embers at a grain warehouse. Nice thought, though! As the Emperor’s brother, Domitian was provided with gear by slaves from the palace. He joked with an impassive dresser that a special battalion had charge of imperial disaster uniforms: National Emergency coveralls with delicious purple accents, boots with little gold wings on them for flying above catastrophes… Once kitted out himself, he coolly observed how the officers who were helping the others glanced at each other as they tried to advise the doddery old fools who now intended to go clambering over smoking ruins where there was still danger of collapse.

  The Prefect of Vigiles gave a short, sensible safety lecture. Half the dignitaries were talking among themselves or wandering off. None of the great seemed to see the point of thick-soled boots, even though up on the Capitol the ground might be still red hot.

  Domitian caught the Prefect’s eye and let a flicker of sympathy show. He had been taught to respect efficient men. After all, his down-to-earth father had viewed his role as emperor as merely doing an honest job. Vespasian also set an example of scoffing, in coarse language, at high-ranking droolers who had reached the limit of their competence but were still cluttering up the Senate.

  Far too many introductions were made. A discreet official stood behind him, mentioning names so Domitian could greet people as if he remembered them. He made it plain he hated shaking hands, but merely inclined his head as long queues of officials paraded. However, he embraced the two consuls, because he knew Titus would have done so: mighty men sharing public grief for their damaged city. Titus would have freely wept on their togaed shoulders, but Domitian’s eyes stayed dry.

  He reviewed the weary vigiles with respect for what the firemen had gone through. Their achievement in saving the main Forum and his father’s new amphitheatre deserved genuine thanks. A small number were presented to him while their Prefect read hastily scribbled accounts of individual bravery. Domitian made awards. Although in theory every honour needed the personal sanction of the absent Titus, his brother was permitted to make on-the-spot announcements of diplomas and cash gifts. Domitian brought it off with grace. He knew how to behave.

  One man’s heroics caught his interest. The Prefect explained that this young fellow, one-eyed and hideously battle-scarred, had plucked a priest from certain death in front of the cult statues in the Temple of Jupiter. Domitian, who credited Jupiter with saving his own life on that terrible night on the Capitol, paid close attention. He seemed fascinated by the man’s scars too.

  Later, the Prefect of Vigiles remembered this. By then the inspection party had snaked up the Gemonian Stairs to the heights, where they gasped at the ruined Temple and gasped again as they surveyed the destruction that stretched across the Field of Mars below. Lists of lost monuments were read out by a sombre works official. Then vigiles tribunes made themselves available to take questions. The senators all liked to think they were bright and well-informed. Some of their queries about how the fire had behaved and how the firemen tackled it were apt; some were stupid. After they had expressed horror over the tragedy, they began talking about rebuilding.

  Classicus was on hand. He was secretary of finance to Titus; he normally stuck with the Emperor day and night, so Domitian wondered if Titus had sent him to spy on what happened today. If Domitian ever became emperor, this freedman would be the first retainer to go.

  Classicus stated quickly that the Emperor would have to be consulted about costs. He had had no chance yet to ascertain how far Titus wanted to empty the Treasury and whether, given how generously he was already paying out after Vesuvius, he would contribute money of his own. Domitian, who was itching to involve himself but who had no remit, stayed silent but looked pinched.

  As the VIPs pontificated, the troops were under orders to stick close and make sure none of the noble ones dithered into an unstable building or had half a column crack down on his head. Domitian had been frowning and withdrawn for a while. Suddenly he announced that he wanted to explore alone.

  The City Prefect nudged the Prefect of Vigiles. This was an awkward breach of protocol. As a member of the imperial family, Domitian was entitled to bodyguards especially when he was representing his brother, but he had not asked and no Praetorian Guards had been arranged. It was still highly dangerous up here and no one who valued his job wanted to take responsibility for the young Caesar if he went off on his own. So the quick-thinking vigiles commander suggested that one of his own men should accompany the prince at a distance, to ensure his safety. He gave the nod to the man who had saved the priest. That was how, while Domitian went as close as possible to the Temple of Jupiter, Gaius Vinius trailed three yards behind.

  They could feel heat still radiating from the ruins, so intense that the building seemed liable to burst into flames again. Enormous broken columns blocked their path. What remained of the gigantic building groaned afresh. Vinius knew that when you started to hear new creaks and shifts, it was time to leave. He wondered if he was allowed to speak up and alert his charge.

  Domitian must have sensed danger; of his own accord he moved back and strode around the summit to the far side of the hill. Now they were isolated together, out of sight of the rest.

  Domitian stood for a long time, gazing across the devastation below. Vinius placed himself nearby, also staring out over the Tiber, in that apparent trance good soldiers adopt to avoid irritating their officers. Domitian considered ordering him away but chose not to. He decided the man was not as dumb as he appeared, simply discreet. Vinius looked a little slumped, clearly having no energy left for the ramrod position his superiors would have wanted.

  In turn, Gaius Vinius weighed up his companion. Domitian Caesar was not yet thirty, Vinius in his early twenties, so they had one thing in common: among the party who had come up to survey the scene — officers, magistrates and officials all in their fifth or sixth decade — they two were the youngest. Domitian was taller than Titus which probably pleased him, though shorter than Vinius. He was good-looking and well-made, though not muscular because he rarely took exercise. Around the eyes there was a noticeable resemblance to his father Vespasian, though unlike his brother he had a silly mouth, Vinius reckoned. Wrong teeth? Receding jaw? A section of his upper lip twisted slightly. The cause was not obvious. The mouth gave him a pleasant expression from one side, though from the other he looked weak.

  Domitian turned his head. Vinius was staring directly at him. Since it was impossible to disguise this, he cleared his throat and said, ‘I see you looking down the Via Flaminia, sir. That was the natural limit of the fire, because the intense heat on the Campus Martius caused an in-draught. Air rushing over the Campus created a natural firebreak.’

  For speaking uninvited, Domitian could have dismissed him. Vinius stared woodenly across the distant Campus. His princely companion elected to be gracious. Vespasian, superb general that he was, had been good with common soldiers; there could be nothing but credit in talking to this one about his speciality, fire.

  ‘The Temple of Isis is gone, I see, soldier.’

  Vinius picked up on the statement’s significance at once. He knew how Domitian had disguised himself as a devotee of Isis during his escape from the Vitellians. Dropping his voice, he acknowledged the young Caesar’s inevitable stress. ‘This must be very hard for you, sir.’

  He understood why Domitian had wanted to escape from observation by his companions. He had hidden it, but all through this official visit he had been fighting down panic. He had tested himself by inspecting the Temple of Jupiter and forcing himself to look down where the Temple of Isis had been, but if he didn’t get away soon it would be too much for him. N
ow he urgently wanted the Capitol visit to be over, but had to make himself steady before he could return to the others and conclude it.

  Vinius, who regularly endured his own nightmares, knew what was going on here. Domitian’s heart would be pounding erratically. Sweat gleamed on his high forehead. Mentally, he was back in that violent climax to the Year of the Four Emperors, shaken by terrible memories.

  ‘One who knows, soldier?’

  ‘I would not presume, Caesar.’

  They shared a brief moment of fellow-feeling nonetheless. The paramilitary stood quietly; the prince’s hands were gripped in fists. Domitian admitted, ‘I nearly died that night. One assumes the memories will fade. That’s a mistake.’ Vinius glanced over again, so Domitian indicated his striking scars. ‘You must have experience of the after-effects of trauma.’

  Vinius nodded. ‘Unfortunately, sir! A major shock, especially when you’re young, seems to stay with you for life.’ Since the sky failed to fall in, he continued: ‘And when the nightmares come, every man is on his own. Just when you think you are safe from the horrors, you get tired, or drunk, or simply the Fates think you are enjoying yourself too much and need to be reined in… But sometimes it’s bloody obvious why it all comes rushing back. So pardon me, Caesar, I know exactly what’s churning you up today and I don’t mean that disrespectfully. I myself wouldn’t want ever again to find whooping barbarians throwing spears towards me.’

  ‘Yet you are a brave man.’

  ‘If you say so.’ A soldier’s answer. Slightly sullen. False modesty, no doubt. I only did my duty, sir. Or true modesty perhaps. The man was visibly too tired to care. He talked, almost to keep himself awake: ‘I just know that any more action in the field would give me the shakes, I couldn’t help it. After I was wounded, I was glad to be sent back to Rome to avoid that situation. For you, sir, at the age you were that awful night, and with what happened to your uncle, coming back on the Capitol, with the Temple burned down once again, must be unbearable.’

  If this conversation with Vinius had any palliative effect, Domitian would never admit it. Their exchange abruptly ended. Imperial distance resumed very fast. Without a word more, Domitian set off back towards the others.

  Watch your step, Caesar.

  Don’t give me orders, soldier.

  The exchange had results, unfortunately.

  After Vinius resumed his place with the troops, Domitian stood with the Prefect of Vigiles and asked the man’s history. By then the Prefect had quickly checked the investigator’s background, so he was able to explain the scars, another story of heroics. He also knew that Vinius Clodianus was the youngest of three sons of a dedicated officer, all three young men serving in the military. The father had been tribune of the vigiles’ Fourth Cohort, before transferring to the Praetorian Guard. He died a mere six weeks later. (The Prefect censored out how the father had spent all six weeks celebrating the achievement of his lifetime dream, drinking gross amounts of wine until, according to the medic, his brain just went off pop.)

  A tragic story. Something should be done for the son, said Domitian.

  People would learn that Domitian only spoke when he had darkly worked a subject through. He had a plan in mind that would meddle where Titus held authority. The idea provided a reward for Vinius and his bravery, whilst also reflecting his father’s service over many years and the disappointment that must have been felt in this whole loyal military family when the father died so suddenly. Titus, who claimed he counted a day lost if he had failed to do good to somebody, would find it impossible to quibble.

  Ignorant of his fate, Gaius Vinius went home that day and slept like the dead until his wife decided he had slumbered in his filth long enough. Cruelly woken, he retreated to a cell at the station house, until eventually someone had to root him out to see their tribune.

  Shambling blearily, grumbling, and still dripping from a hasty bathe, Vinius was informed of an unexpected honour: he had been posted out of the vigiles and into the Praetorian Guard.

  ‘Shit on a stick!’

  ‘This is for carrying out that charred priest, I imagine. Look as if you’re delighted.’ The tribune spoke dryly. He knew Vinius liked to keep his head down. ‘They are all foul-mouthed, arrogant bastards. You should fit in. You’ll be among the youngest,’ he added a little spitefully. Some vigiles had to yearn for this for years; most never made it. ‘They will love you like a new little kitten.’

  ‘Stuff that for a lark,’ growled Vinius at this sinister promise. He was now stuffed. His life, as he saw it, was ruined. He knew the constraints. The only benefit was that the unwanted advancement put an end to his marriage problems. He could live in the camp and never go home. He had to live in the camp, in fact.

  ‘From what I’ve heard of your father, he would be delighted.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He would be very proud.’

  It must be the after-effects of the fire; as Vinius faced his future, even with his dead father’s imagined blessing, he felt sick.

  4

  The Flavian Amphitheatre was paid for by Vespasian’s booty from the Judaean wars. It took ten years to build, required a whole new quarry to provide its travertine marble fittings and facings, remained incomplete when its venerable founder passed away and was formally opened by his son Titus. The enormous and iconic gift to the people of Rome would one day be known as the Colosseum because of an adjacent hundred-foot bronze statue of Nero, which stood in the vestibule of the Golden House. All memory of Nero was being obliterated in Rome so Vespasian had added a sunray crown to reconfigure the gigantic figure as a tribute to Sol Invictus, the undying sun. He was not a man to waste anything expensive. So in his ever-genial way, he set a precedent that statues to an emperor who was damned to the memory — written out of history for abominable crimes — should be recycled. Vespasian had probably not envisaged that one day the head of the Emperor Nerva would replace that of his own son Domitian.

  Since the amphitheatre was slathered in many other statues, sculptors were happy; their agents and middlemen, who took the larger share of their fees, wore even bigger smiles. When Titus dedicated the arena after the fire, suppliers of exotic animals and gladiators enjoyed a smackeroo bonanza. The opening games lasted around a hundred days, with nine thousand wild beasts slain in the process — together with some humans. The knock-on effects as obscene profits were splurged would bring joy for years to bankers, builders, silver- and goldsmiths, gourmet chefs, marble importers, traders in silks and spices, providers of carriages with expensive coachwork, undercover betting agents, suppliers of performing dwarves, and everyone in the multiple branches of the sex trade.

  Less obvious was that a hundred days of public partying were a boon to hairdressers. Every woman who disported in the spanking new seats, and many men too, wanted to look smart. Although some relationships would break apart under the strain of so much enjoyment, numerous other pairings were begun, developed or cemented, during the arena games. This required endless work with curling irons, colours and conditioners, wigs, toupees and topknots.

  Though still a young girl, Flavia Lucilla worked hard while she had that chance. She earned good money. She even won more, because one day when she was sprucing up imperial locks that had drooped in the hot sun, her quick fingers managed to grasp and hold one of the gift balls that Titus flung into the crowd; some were for clothing or food, but hers gave a cash prize. At the same time, she established a presence, gained her confidence, and acquired clients who would stay faithful to her throughout her working life. Titus’ inaugural Games left her just about safe financially, although immediately beforehand — during the few months after she went to the vigiles — her life had been perilous and maturity dropped on her abruptly.

  The first shock was the unexpected loss of her mother. Lucilla had furiously planned a break with Lachne straight after her interview with Gaius Vinius, but a quarrel was pre-empted by the fire raging so close to where they lived. She found Lachne hysterically running up and down
stairs from their apartment and loading their possessions onto a cart sent by her lover, Orgilius. Smoke filled their street, yet members of the vigiles were telling everyone to wait, though to be ready to evacuate if the fire crossed the Via Flaminia. It never did. People disobeyed the orders anyway.

  Lucilla deferred her quarrel. She helped Lachne load the cart, then struggle through the crowded streets to another apartment that Orgilius put at their disposal. This would have been generous, Lucilla thought, if he had not so obviously been protecting his own sex-life. The place was better — one storey lower — though it was not where Orgilius lived himself. Lucilla was sure he must be married. Oblivious to this glaring conclusion, her mother declared how useful it was that he owned so many properties. Lachne settled into the improved accommodation like a smart limpet who had drifted to a more promising rock. Even if their old apartment survived, she was not going back.

  Flavia Lachne had the fine features that were common among slaves and ex-slaves of the aristocracy, who could afford to buy their staff not simply for potential use but for appearance. The Flavians were a frugal family who usually picked their slaves because they were affordable, yet Lachne had been ornamental too. In later life she inclined to stoutness, but she always had a striking, regular face with large dark eyes and a figure she made the most of. She looked like a woman who was up for anything; Lucilla presumed she was.