Master and God Page 5

  As far as anyone knew her origins, Lachne came from the Aegean coast of Asia, somewhere south of Troy and east of Lesbos. This happened to be a region with olive oil production and the related creation of cosmetics, but although a knowledge of beauty treatments was later useful, Lachne had in fact wangled a career ornamenting the adult Flavian women simply because she wanted to avoid getting stuck as a nursery carer. So another slave called Phyllis was subsequently able to boast she had looked after the infant Domitian and Titus’ daughter Julia, while instead Lachne plaited and coiffed her mistresses. It appeared, even to her own offspring, that she did not like children. This was felt keenly by her daughter Lucilla.

  Like most mothers, Lachne believed she had brought up her children well. Nobody could complain there was a lack of love (thought Lachne) yet there was little demonstration of it (thought Lucilla). The pair had lived together for fifteen years, shared meals and chores, sometimes went shopping, very occasionally had outings to see acquaintances, rarely quarrelled, but often failed to communicate. Lachne would have said she knew her daughter inside out; the reserved Lucilla would have scoffed. But Lucilla did know Lachne. There was much about her mother that she tended to despise, though she generally refrained from argument or attempting to change her.

  Lucilla had barely reached her teens when a subtle shift in their relationship came, and it was over the famous Flavian hairstyle. Then, Lachne seriously needed her.

  The Flavian women were not tall. This was never recorded by poets or historians who, unless there was scandal to report, only cared to mention women’s names and their marriages. Up until now no Flavian ladies had inspired scurrilous writing, where physical attributes might have been mocked. Even the existence of Antonia Caenis, Vespasian’s ex-slave concubine, had caused more surprise than censure. Julia’s reputation would be fouled, though not yet. Domitian’s wife was said to brag about her conquests, though perhaps this was a vindictive slur, retaliation because she was proud and ignored critics contemptuously. Most Flavian women stayed silent and practically invisible. That included Flavia Domitilla whom Lachne and Lucilla knew best. Her mother had been Vespasian’s daughter.

  The Flavian ladies’ moderate height can be deduced from the extremely tall hairstyle that Lachne devised for them. She was a good hairdresser. She understood impact. Despite moving with the slow sway of a pregnant dairy cow, as the darting Lucilla saw it, Lachne always did her job. She knew how to suggest brightly that a rather dumpy, ordinary-featured, unassuming, no-longer-young woman, perhaps wearied by pregnancies and children dying, or simply depressed by long years of humouring a husband, might cheer herself up with a new look. This carried a promise of renewed marital excitement, not to mention a subtle gloss that the put-upon client was a woman of worth; she still possessed needs, desires, allure and sexual fire of her own.

  Having a good eye and more creativity than her sleepy manner implied, Lachne became so much loved by the Flavian ladies that she won her freedom on the strength of it, though on condition that as a member of the extended Flavian ‘ familia ’ she would always remain available to do her ladies’ hair. Intent on escaping drudgery, Lachne moved out — one advantage of becoming a freedwoman was that she had now some choice in this — but she always lived very close to the most important Flavian women. She could be summoned in an emergency, though was not on instant call. Lachne had time to herself and if she shooed Lucilla out of doors she could freely entertain men.

  So Lucilla had grown up near the Quirinal Hill in the Seventh Region. By the age of fifteen, part of the tension with her mother came from Lachne’s determination to keep control of her. Lachne herself no longer had nimble hands. Lucilla’s small, extremely dexterous fingers were essential for constructing the court ladies’ hairstyle.

  Nothing like this startling edifice had been worn before. In previous times, Roman women harped piously on ‘traditional simplicity’. The more ostentatiously virtuous relatives of the Emperor Augustus, starting with his chilly sister Octavia, had scraped modest ringlets on the nape of their necks. Some parted the front and took their hair down each side to their bejewelled ears, an effect that could be achieved naturally, though it was in hairdressers’ interests to suggest waves either side of the parting, which required curling rods. Other women had a rolled topknot just above the forehead. It looked severe but added ‘lift’. This noun is frequently dropped into hairdressers’ conversation. ‘Lift’ needs assistance, whatever the hair type.

  Lachne’s new style had stupendous lift. It consisted of a comical crescent of false or real hair, covered all over with a crush of pincurls. It lofted above the wearer’s face from ear to ear, like a curly tiara. Of course the look required support, either a wire framework, which was lighter, or padding, which was more comfortable but heavier — though women found it altered how they held their heads and gave them a sense of dignity. Their own hair, which was redundant to the effect, would be plaited and coiled on the back of their heads. False curls allowed the whole front structure to be removed, which saved having to sleep upright.

  The rows of frontal curls were a challenge for sculptors. Apart from the technical difficulty, it is not easy to ply a chisel while trying not to grin.

  Wearing this hairstyle women could not judge how odd they looked. In boudoirs of the day, even the most beautifully ornamented bronze or silver hand-mirrors had polished metal surfaces that showed only blurred images.

  The curly coronet was as hot as a bearskin to wear. From the side, it seemed liable to topple off. From behind, joins showed. Yearning to be fashionistas, Flavian ladies were nevertheless convinced by their attendants that they looked quite lovely. Other people that they might have consulted were no help. What husband, when asked, ‘How is my hair today, Septimus?’ was ever going to answer, ‘Bunnikins, you look ridiculous’? Septimus was probably miles away, dreaming of screwing that kitchen girl with the enormous breasts, or wistfully lusting after his favourite altar-boy, the one who wore his tunics unbelievably short to display those pert buttocks ready for rodding.. Even down-to-earth husbands would be just as vague, as they groaned over the price of oxen or wondered how to catch out a business manager who was blatantly fiddling. Perhaps a rare wholesome specimen might instead be philosophising on human goodness — though on the whole Roman men were more fascinated by badness.

  From a young age, Flavia Lucilla had helped create the crazy concoctions with which women of the Flavian family turned themselves into trendsetters. Even under Vespasian, an emperor whose political appeal was ‘old country values’, it was permissible for respectable women to spend hours having their hair tended. Some women enjoyed being viciously cruel to the slaves who had to work on them; they could pinch and punch and beat unhappy foreign girls while they were themselves beautified. All knew that complicated hair made them expensive ornaments to their noble menfolk, which the men liked, and which showed that the upper classes were special because they had leisure and money for time-consuming processes. Their men were taught to go along with it. For one thing they reassured themselves that while wives were being combed endlessly indoors, they were not out committing adultery with charioteers. (Men believed that was what all wives dreamed of; wives gossiped that some of their number indeed managed it.)

  Lucilla always smiled wryly at the concept of her mother as a guardian of morals. But she did admire a woman who could persuade her clients to deck themselves out so crankily, and to pay handsomely for it. Only much later, much too late, did Lucilla concede that, creatively, her mother must have possessed an impish sense of humour.

  By that time, Lachne was gone. During their flight from home in the terrible fire, she was already breathless. She must have been affected by smoke, yet was also sickening. Lucilla had supposed she was terrified that her jewellery collection, hastily retrieved, would be lost in the crush or discovered by Orgilius, who would realise she had tried to dupe him. Mother and daughter quarrelled, badly. Already feeling ill in truth, Lachne forgot her need for Luci
lla’s dexterity. She goaded the girl, who had nowhere else to go, no means to support herself — unless she wanted to become a waitress in a street bar, which was the same as being a prostitute. Lucilla in response made vicious comments on her mother’s men. ‘That would include my father — if I knew who he was. But even you don’t know, Mother, do you?’

  If Lachne did, she took the secret to her grave. As the quarrel flared more violently, Lucilla fled. She went back to their old apartment, but Lachne had paid rent only sporadically, so very soon the landlord kicked her out and put in new tenants. Helpless, the unhappy girl slunk back to see Lachne, only to learn that her mother had caught the plague that was running through Rome in a populace weakened by famine after the eruption of Vesuvius.

  The epidemic was virulent. Lachne had died.

  There was a funeral. People Lucilla barely knew turned up, one of them Lara, whom Lucilla had always believed was a young aunt. Fellow slaves of Lachne’s had clubbed together to put up a memorial. To Flavia Lachne, freedwoman of Domitilla, hairdresser. She lived forty-three years. This was made by Flavius Endymon, clothes mender; Flavius Nepos, cook; Flavius Afranius, litter-bearer; Flavia Lara, hairdresser.

  Lucilla wondered whether Endymon, Nepos or Afranius could be her father, though she felt no affinity with any of them.

  Members of the Flavian family sent gifts, there was never any suggestion these imperial patrons might attend in person; the gifts were selected on their behalf by the same freedmen and women who supplied the undertakers and provided the inscription stone. Since those who had generously paid for the stone wanted their names listed on it to advertise their piety, there was no room to mention Lucilla.

  She was terrified about her future. People at the funeral had fallen upon Lachne’s clothes and other possessions, taking them away as ‘keepsakes’. The young woman Lara, who had a useless husband and several small children, was particularly eager to gather up mementos. All Lucilla kept was the famous jewellery collection. It was her only fallback. Otherwise, her choices were to work or to marry someone with a job or little business; marriage would probably entail hard work in any case. Lucilla ought to be entitled to a basic corn dole, but it was never enough to live on and had to be claimed by her male head of household; Lucilla had no head of household.

  Orgilius said she could stay at the apartment for a while. How long, or on what terms, he did not specify. Lucilla soon found out. One evening he visited, plied her with drink, pleaded with her to be nice to him, and seduced her.

  It was no surprise. Nor was it brutal rape. Lucilla knew the rapid coupling was no different from abuse meted out daily to slaves in most homes. Orgilius felt he had inherited the girl, a fair return for financial investment in her mother. True, Lucilla was young, but much younger children had to service the rich. He blamed Lucilla, murmuring, ‘You encouraged me, you naughty minx!’ as he slunk off.

  Lucilla saw that Orgilius had some shame and would stay away for a while — a short while. Inevitably, he would return. He took her compliance for granted. Who could blame him? Though he had made her tipsy, she had not tried to fight him off.

  Lucilla tried not to feel wanton, though she was a normal girl, already intrigued about sex. Even with a horrible partner, and with such cursory manoeuvres, her body had to some extent responded. So she viewed what had happened with detachment. That did not mean she wanted more of this.

  Orgilius was rich, but he was overweight and pudding-faced. He made her flesh creep. She suspected he could turn nasty and Lachne had complained of his interest in experimental sexual acts. He was sixty. He had warts. He thought a young girl should take orders and be grateful. Next time he grabbed Lucilla, their congress would go on very much longer and she would be expected to participate vigorously.

  She seemed stuck with Orgilius, as a provider. If she fell pregnant, however, he would evict her. She had no knowledge of prevention, nor of where to go for an abortion, which was illegal anyway. To be publicly linked to the businessman carried a penalty. Unless she kept this secret and lied, she would be spoiled for marriage, with its poisonous reliance on a bride’s supposed virginity.

  She opted to flee.

  Her one hope lay in Lara. Lara had left her address, as if inviting contact. When Lucilla turned up, tearfully begging for help, Lara immediately took her in. Lucilla’s vague hope that she could simply stay with this family in their admittedly crowded apartment and help look after the children ended as soon as Junius, Lara’s husband, wandered in. Junius worked in some unspecified branch of the leather trade. He was small and shifty; it was difficult to see why Lara, a beautiful young woman with a pleasant personality, had married him. Maybe he had seemed her only option for security, though he oozed various kinds of unreliability and smelt of tannin. His speculative glance at Lucilla spoke volumes. She saw at once that Lara would want her to find other accommodation quickly, lest things go badly wrong. She herself now had no wish to dally.

  By then she had had a new shock. Lara was not an aunt. Apparently Lachne was her mother too. She and Lucilla, Lara explained, were sisters.

  That was not the entire truth; the truth was another family secret which Lucilla would be a long time discovering.

  The story Lara told was that Flavia Lachne had been only thirteen when she was first made pregnant. As with Lucilla later, she had never said whether her elder daughter Lara was fathered by a fellow slave, someone outside the house, or one of the family. Any of these was possible in most households. It was a slave’s lot to be sexually exploited, though the lucky ones passed puberty first. Lucilla sometimes thought her sister had a Flavian air, though slaves often took on the mannerisms of the family they lived with. Her origins were best unexplored. Lara herself showed no curiosity and trying to associate herself closely with one of the imperial family would do her no good. Slaves and ex-slaves were used to not knowing their paternity.

  As a slave’s child, Lara had had minimal contact with her birth mother. Eventually Lachne bore a second daughter, Lucilla, with about fifteen years between the two. Neither ever knew of Lachne having other children, though she could have done. Both daughters became free when Flavia Lachne was manumitted; she bought their freedom herself.

  Lara married young, then she and Lucilla, who was still an infant, rarely met. Looking back, Lucilla remembered her mother had from time to time left the apartment, mentioning that she was off to visit Lara, though she was always reticent about it.

  Lucilla liked Lara. Lara had a good opinion of everyone and always expected every event to turn out well; perhaps this challenging viewpoint explained why she married Junius.

  Lara explained to Lucilla that, as the children of a freedwoman, they did have connections. They could claim the Flavians as patrons and extended family. The orphaned Lucilla could ask for their help. She would have a duty to them, but they had responsibilities to her and should ensure she did not starve.

  Accompanying their mother, Lara had regularly groomed the Flavians. With Lachne gone, she went independently. She now took Lucilla to meet Flavia Domitilla, Vespasian’s granddaughter, who had freed Lachne. The sisters would work together, even after Lucilla found her own place to stay. Lara quickly trained Lucilla in all aspects of hairdressing, not just building towers of curls. Quietly and pleasantly, like her mother and sister, Lucilla made the Flavian ladies feel she turned them out like goddesses.

  When Lara was caught up in domestic affairs, Lucilla visited the Flavian women on her own. They paid a small, rather unreliable retainer, but soon Lara’s other private clients were introducing her to their friends. She and Lara had also become known for attending at weddings: they adorned the brides, who traditionally had their hair arranged in a special style like that of the Vestal Virgins. This generally led to extra work on the brides’ female relatives. Tips on wedding days were good. Then when the amphitheatre opened, Lucilla set herself to work long hours to build up her savings.

  The cash gift she collected at the Games allowed her to mo
ve out from Lara’s to a tiny one-room lodging. Her long-term dream was to rent a much better apartment where she could both live and work. It had to be pleasant, with space for customers and running water so she could wash clients’ hair. This would be expensive. Lucilla’s nest-egg slowly grew but for a long time the kind of place she wanted remained beyond her reach.

  Times changed. After ruling for only two years, the Emperor Titus collapsed with a fever, just as his father had done. When Titus died, everyone immediately understood that Rome was entering a period which would have a very different flavour. Domitian Caesar snatched the throne, almost too impatient to wait for the Senate’s approval.

  From the start there was consternation. While it was true that the beloved Titus had turned out well, nobody ever expected Domitian to flower like his brother. He was damned before he began — and he diligently lived up to people’s fears. The Senate was tense. Artists hoped for benefits, though imperial patronage was always uncertain. The armed forces had mixed expectations because to date Domitian had had no military career. Traders grumbled, even though most businessmen remained confident. Lucilla and her sister, whose clients included members of the imperial family, watched events with heightened curiosity and from close at hand.

  Lucilla occasionally attended Domitia Longina, the Emperor’s wife, a woman she did not take to much, though it was not her place to refuse the work. She mainly continued to look after Flavia Domitilla, who was a mother of seven and much in need of pampering. Through her, Lucilla met Domitilla’s cousin Julia, Titus’ daughter, after being sent along to revive Julia’s spirits after her father died. Romans were supposed to have unkempt hair when mourning, but behind discreet veils most aristocratic women preferred to stay neat. One never knew (Lachne had always said) when a lover might manage to creep up the back stairs with a practical suggestion for consoling one’s grief.