Текст книги "Empire"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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“But what if a man is oppressed by others? What if his exercise of free will is constrained by the brute strength of another?”

“Epictetus would say that such a thing is impossible. Other men can have power over one’s body and possessions, but never over the will. The self is always free, if we are but conscious of it.”

“And what about the act of love, or the other pleasures of the body?”

“Epictetus disparages what he calls ‘appetite,’ the drive to satisfy the cravings of the body. Too often appetite controls a man, rather than being controlled by him.”

“But since we have a body, and its bare requirements must be met if we are to exist at all in this world, clearly appetite serves a purpose. A man must eat, so why not take pleasure in food? And what you and I do together, Lucius – does it not give you pleasure?”

“Perhaps too much. There are moments when I’m with you that I forget where I am, even who I am. I lose myself in the moment.”

She smiled. “And isn’t that delicious?”

“Dangerous, Epictetus would say. To lose one’s self in ecstasy is a trap, an exaltation of the body over the will, a capitulation to appetite, an invitation to heartbreak and disappointment, because we have no control whatsoever over the passions and appetites of another. A person may love us one day and forget us the next. Pleasure can turn to pain. But I believe a man needs to touch and be touched, to find union with another, to feel sometimes that he is an animal with a body and cravings and nothing more. I experience that with you, Cornelia. I wouldn’t give up what I share with you for anything.”

“So, do you embrace the Stoic view or not, Lucius?”

“Much of it makes sense to me. But I have my doubts. Is that all there is to wisdom – an acceptance of fate, an acknowledgement that we’re essentially powerless? If the pains and pleasures of the body are separate from the self, and if nothing precedes or follows life, why bother to live at all? But look at me – talking philosophy with a Vestal virgin! Do the gods look down and laugh at us, Cornelia? Do they despise us?”

“If Vesta were displeased with me, she would let me know.”

He shook his head. “Sometimes I can’t believe the risk you take by meeting me.” He ran the tip of his forefinger over her breast and watched the nipple grow erect. “Sometimes I can’t believe the risk I’m taking.”

They both knew the law. A Vestal convicted of breaking her vow of chastity was to be buried alive. Her lover was to be hung on a cross and beaten to death.

Cornelia shrugged. “At least since the days of Nero – all through my tenure as a Vestal – our vow of chastity has never been enforced. Some Vestals remain virgins, some do not. We don’t flaunt what we do, and the priests of the state religion don’t look too closely into our lives. They take their cue from the Pontifex Maximus, who is also the emperor. Vespasian never cared what we got up to. Titus also looked the other way. They knew what truly mattered. As long as we keep Vesta’s hearthfire burning without interruption and perform the rituals correctly, Roma will continue to receive the goddess’s blessing.”

“Do you truly believe in Vesta and her protection?”

“Of course I do. Don’t tell me you’re an atheist, Lucius. You haven’t converted to Judaism?”

“You know my foreskin is intact.”

“Or worse, become a follower of Christ, a hater of the gods and mankind?”

“No. I am neither a Jew nor a Christian. But…”

“Yes?”

He hesitated. What he was about to say he had never said aloud to anyone. “My uncle Kaeso was a Christian.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He was burned alive by Nero, along with the other Christians who were punished for starting the Great Fire.”

She pursed her lips. “How terrible for you.”

“How terrible for him. I never knew the man. My father kept me away from him.”

“Terrible for him, yes…” Cornelia left something unspoken, but he could read her thoughts: if the man was a Christian and an arsonist, perhaps he deserved his punishment. “Your uncle didn’t give you that, did he?” She gestured to the amulet that hung from the chain around his neck.

“Why do you ask?” Lucius had never worn the fascinum when he went to see her. Today was the first time he had forgotten to leave it at home.

“I saw you touch it when you mentioned him. It looks a bit like a cross. The Christians boast that their god died by crucifixion – as if that were something to be proud of!”

“As a matter of fact, my uncle Kaeso did wear this amulet during his lifetime; he was wearing it when he died. So my father once told me. But the resemblance to a cross is only a coincidence. It’s a family talisman, a fascinum.”

“It doesn’t look like a fascinum.”

“That’s because it’s so very old and worn. If you look at it from a certain angle, you can make out the original shape. Do you see? Here is the phallus, and here are the wings.”

“Yes, I see.”

“You’re one of the few people who’s ever seen it. When I wear it, I keep it beneath my clothes, out of sight.”

“And when you go to the baths?”

“I leave it at home, for fear of losing it.”

“Then I am indeed privileged to see Lucius Pinarius naked, wearing only his family heirloom.”

He lowered his eyes. “I’ve also never talked about my uncle before. Not to anyone, ever.”

“Is it a secret, then?”

“Some people know about him, I imagine – Epaphroditus must know, since he knew my father quite well – but it’s never spoken of.”

“I understand. In every family there are certain events that are never talked about, relatives who are never mentioned.”

He realized that he was touching the fascinum, turning it this way and that between his forefinger and thumb. He stared at it for a moment, then released it with a grunt. “How in Hades did we end up talking about my uncle Kaeso?”

“We were talking about Vesta and the sacred hearthfire, and atheists like the Christians who don’t believe in the gods.”

“I’m not sure what I think about the gods. Lately I’ve been reading Euhemerus. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Euhemerus served at the court of Cassander, who was king of Macedonia after Alexander. Euhemerus believed that our tales of gods are simply stories about mortal men and women who lived long ago, made larger than life by the storytellers and given supernatural powers.”

“Then I think this Euhemerus was most certainly an atheist.”

“I’ve also been studying Epicurus. He thought the gods existed, but believed they must have withdrawn from our world, growing so distant from mankind that their effect on mortals is only very faint, hardly perceptible, like a shadow cast by a feeble lamp.”

“The light cast by the hearthfire of Vesta is not feeble, I can assure you,” said Cornelia. “The goddess is with me every day. I attend her with joy and thanksgiving. But the common belief that she demands virginity of her priestesses, and punishes impurity by visiting catastrophes on the city, is a fallacy, a mistaken notion that has been proved false many times. I know for a fact that many Vestals have been unchaste with no bad consequence whatsoever. Otherwise, Roma would have suffered multiple disasters virtually every year that I’ve been a Vestal.”

“We lost Pompeii-”

“That was far from Roma.”

“There was a terrible fire-”

“The Temple of Vesta and the House of the Vestals were untouched.”

“And a plague-”

“Not a single Vestal died, or even became ill. Does talking about disasters always make you so hard?”

“Only with you.”

They made love again. They had never met without making love more than once, perhaps to make up for the infrequency of their meetings. To Lucius, the second time was always better than the first – less hurried and more relaxed, with a greater sense of union between them and a more satisfying climax for both. For the duration of their lovemaking, all his questions about existence were suspended. Each moment was sufficient in itself.

He held her tightly as she reached the crisis. He had never felt closer to her. But afterwards, she slipped out of his embrace and turned her back to him.

“This is the last time we’ll meet for a while,” she said. “For several months, at least.”

“Why?”

“I’m going away. I won’t come back until the spring.”

“It’ll be a long winter without you. Where are you going?”

“To the House of the Vestals at Alba Longa.” The town was a day’s journey down the Appian Way, in a hilly region of quaint villages, luxurious villas and hunting estates.

“That’s only a few hours from Roma. I could come to see you – ”

“No. I’ll be in seclusion. The rules are stricter in Alba. The Vestals there belong to the oldest of all the orders, established even before Roma was founded.”

“I thought the worship of Vesta originated here in Roma.”

She smiled ruefully and shook her head. “And you, a patrician with a name going back to the days of Hercules!”

“The history of religion is not my strong point.”

“I thought you read Titus Livius.”

“Only the parts about my family.”

“Even so, every Roman child should know that Rhea Silvia, the mother of Romulus and Remus, was a Vestal.”

“Imagine that – another Vestal who was not a virgin!”

“Rhea’s father was King Numitor of Alba. He was murdered by his brother, Amulius. Her wicked uncle feared that Rhea might someday produce a rival for the throne, so he forced her to become a Vestal and go into seclusion. But Rhea became pregnant nevertheless. Some say Mars ravished her. Others say her uncle Amulius raped her. However it happened, Rhea kept her condition secret until the twins were born…” Cornelia’s voice trailed off.

“Even I know this part,” said Lucius. “Their mother put the newborn twins in a basket, then a slave took the babies out to a rocky hillside and left them there to die. That was a terrible thing to do, don’t you think?”

“But what choice did Rhea Silvia have? A lot of women do the same thing nowadays. It’s common practice.”

“But what sort of mother could abandon her child to die?”

“Slave women, poor women, girls who’ve been raped. Rhea Silvia faced death if the evidence of her crime was discovered.”

Lucius shook his head. He had never approved of the common practice of abandoning babies, but he did not care to argue with her. “Ah, well, I know the rest of the story. Jupiter raised a tremendous storm, and there was a great flood, and the twins were carried all the way to Roma, where their basket foundered on a hillside. A she-wolf found them, took them to her cave, called the Lupercale, and suckled them. Eventually, Romulus and Remus were adopted by a pig farmer and his wife, grew up to become fearsome warriors, killed the wicked Amulius, rescued their mother, Rhea Silvia, and founded Roma. And the rest is history. But why must you go to Alba, Cornelia? And why for so long?”

“The decision isn’t mine. The Virgo Maxima has ordered me to go. It’s my duty to obey her.” There was something evasive in Cornelia’s tone, but he sensed that there would be no point in pressing her.

“I’ll miss you. I’ll miss this.” He pulled her close. “But even more, I’ll miss this – the thing we do after making love. The banter. The teasing. The serious talk. Will you take another lover, while you’re in Alba?”

“No.” She answered without hesitation.

“Then neither will I,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a man.”

“And you are a woman – the only one I want. To whom else might I turn? The bored wife of some acquaintance looking for an hour’s distraction? A slave, counting the cracks in the ceiling until I’m finished? A whore, with one eye on the coins in my purse? Or perhaps I should look for some doe-eyed young girl fresh on the marriage market whose father is willing to settle for a suitor with a worn-out patrician name, a reputation for keeping company with exiled philosophers, and a family fortune only a little tainted by association with Nero. Not one of those women would be able to discuss philosophy and religion with me afterwards.”

“You might be surprised.”

“I suppose I’ll do what Martial does when one of his boys fails to show up – learn to love my left hand. Or I suppose I could turn to another of the Vestals-”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Varronilla isn’t bad-looking, and she’s even younger than you; maybe too young for my taste. What about the Oculata sisters? I once enjoyed the attentions of a pair of sisters, years ago – and how many men have had sisters who were also Vestals? The sheer novelty of it-”

“Don’t even think about it!” Cornelia gave him a pinch, playful but painful enough to make him yelp. “You and I take precautions, Lucius. We’re discreet. When our paths cross in public – at the Flavian Amphitheatre, in the Forum – we greet each other briefly, as is perfectly natural and acceptable, then we move on. We give no one cause for suspicion. But if you gain a reputation for deliberately seeking the company of Vestals, if you seem to be too familiar with our comings and goings-”

“Cornelia, I was only joking. I was teasing you – the way a man teases the woman he loves when she’s just told him that for months and months he won’t be able to talk to her, or touch her, or do this to her…”

His passion reignited hers. Their lovemaking was fiercer than ever, fired by the knowledge of their coming separation.

AD 85

“And you’ve been faithful to her the entire time, Lucius? Even though you haven’t been alone with her for over a year?” said Martial. They were in the garden of Epaphroditus, along with their host and Epictetus.

“Just as I vowed to her,” said Lucius.

“Let me make sure I understand. This woman went away for several months, then finally returned, and now she refuses to meet with you again, except in public and in passing. Yet still you remain chaste, having no intercourse with either women or boys?”

“That is correct.”

“But, Lucius, this is madness! If the woman’s lost carnal interest in you, you must move on. Oh, I understand the heartache, the longing, the period of grief when a love affair ends. But while you’re waiting for that to pass, you still must attend to your physical needs. If you don’t feel ready yet to take pleasure with another woman, then take a boy, since you have no real interest in boys. That way you can experience all the physical pleasure with none of the regret you might feel for betraying this woman – though how you can betray a woman when it was she who abandoned you is beyond me.”

“Martial, you simply don’t understand. She hasn’t betrayed me. She’s as chaste as I am.”

“Oh, really? How can you believe that? Of course, you won’t even tell us if this woman is married, or a widow, or some other man’s slave, or a common whore in the Subura.”

She is none of those things, thought Lucius, but he could think of no way to explain that fact without giving away Cornelia’s identity.

“Personally,” said Epictetus, “I think there’s nothing perverse or unnatural or even unusual about remaining chaste, if the body and mind are in harmony with such a choice. This mad rage to deflower virgins and sample every available prostitute and carry on illicit affairs with other men’s wives, and meanwhile to give equal attention to fawning boys and compliant eunuchs – the sort of topic so fashionable nowadays in poetry – seems only to make a man constantly agitated and dissatisfied. Such a surrender to lust yields very little contentment in the long run.”

“Ah, but it yields so much pleasure in the short run,” said Martial. “Though it can be quite exhausting, I’ll grant you. Our emperor used to be quite the sexual athlete, you know. In his younger days, before his father became emperor, they say the young Domitian was on a first-name basis with every prostitute in Roma; he’d go swimming naked in the Tiber by moonlight with a whole group of lovelies. And he was quite the seducer of respectable matrons as well. He called his activities ‘bed-wrestling.’ I like that, don’t you? It shows that our emperor in his younger days didn’t take lovemaking too seriously. It’s was just another way of keeping fit and working up a good sweat, like horseback riding or a bit of exercise at the gymnasium. Of course, once our emperor married – a true love match – there was never a more devoted husband and father. Ah, the death of that precious little boy! What a blow that was. And his wife’s subsequent affair with that actor, Paris – the irrational act of a grieving mother, surely – was yet another disappointment. Our emperor did what any self-respecting Roman would do – divorced his wife – and Paris just happened to be murdered in the street one night. But so devoted was our emperor to his chosen spouse that he forgave and took back the empress, and their marital bliss continues. My fondest wish is that they will soon produce another heir. Indeed, I have a poem already prepared for that occasion: ‘Be born, great child, to whom your father may entrust the everlasting reins of empire-’”

“And yet, does Domitian look happy?” said Epictetus. “Was he ever happy, even in his younger days, when he was so proficient at this so-called ‘bed-wrestling’? No. Always, he displays that same dour, constipated look that one saw on his father’s face. Yet behold our friend Lucius here. Have you ever seen a man who appeared more contented? Yet Lucius has but one lover, and that lover makes no demands on him at all. He remembers the pleasures he once experienced with her, which are perfect and inviolable in retrospect, and contemplates her from afar, with some suffering but also with the bittersweet satisfaction that she longs for him as well. Clearly there is some danger or impropriety attached to their relationship, either for her or for him, or else I think he would tell us her name; but that element of risk must only add spice to his longing. He loves this woman as certain men are said to have loved a goddess – from afar, with utmost devotion, and at their peril. See how satisfied he appears – his eyes gleam, his movements are sure and graceful, his whole bearing is that of a man at peace with the world and with himself. I think our friend Lucius has discovered a secret happiness that the rest of us can only guess at.”

“We’re certainly left guessing at the name of his lover,” said Martial.

Lucius smiled. “It’s strange, but somehow this relationship – irregular as it may be – has filled a need in my life. As grateful as I am for the gift of friendship from each of you, there was a vacant place inside me, an emptiness that remained unamused by your wit, Martial, unsatisfied by your philosophy, Epictetus, insecure despite all your fatherly concern for me, Epaphroditus. She fills that emptiness.”

“So poetry, philosophy, and friendship cannot compete with unrequited love?” said Martial.

“Not unrequited love, only unfulfilled – for the time being, anyway.”

Epictetus nodded. “If you’ve found contentment in a chaste love affair, you should strive to maintain the relationship just as it is. The happiness that comes from physical consummation is fleeting.”

“All happiness is fleeting,” said Martial. “Life is precarious. Everything changes. Look at the four of us, growing older year by year.”

“Yet we’ve all managed to remain unmarried,” said Epaphroditus with a laugh.

“Only that fellow never changes.” Epictetus nodded towards the statue of Melancomas. “The young boxer is as perfect now as he was the day Epaphroditus unveiled him.”

“And as empty of all desires!” Martial laughed. “Perhaps we should be envious of Melancomas here. While everything around him changes, he never ages, and he is never troubled by hunger or sorrow or longing. Perhaps Medusa wasn’t such a monster after all, when she turned men into stone. Maybe she was doing those men a favour by freeing them from suffering and decay. On the other hand, Pygmalion lusted for a statue and brought her to life, and that went rather well; according to Ovid, they lived happily ever after. So we are left with a puzzle: is it better to turn a man to stone, or bring stone to life?”

“I think you may have found a subject worthy of a poem,” said Epaphroditus.

“No, the paradox is too subtle for my audiences. Rich patrons want a quick setup, a clever allusion or two – preferably obscene – and then a smashing punch line. No, I think my Medusa-versus-Pygmalion idea would be better suited to one of those learned discourses by our friend Dio. Imagine the convoluted argument he could spin, evoking all sorts of metaphors and obscure historical references. Say, has anyone heard from Dio lately?”

“I received a new discourse,” said Epaphroditus, “only yesterday

…” His voice trailed off.

“What! And you’re only just now mentioning it? Come, read it aloud,” said Martial.

“I only had time to quickly scan it. I’m not sure…”

“Don’t tell me it’s no good,” said Martial. “Has the poor exile lost his wit, stuck in Sarmizegetusa?”

“No, it’s not that. To be candid, I’m not sure it’s safe to keep the thing. It may be… seditious.”

“Read it quickly then, and afterwards we’ll burn it.” Martial laughed.

Epaphroditus smiled uneasily. Lucius knew what he was thinking but would not say aloud: none of them completely trusted Martial any longer, because of his favoured status with the emperor. Martial hardly seemed the type to betray old friends, but Epaphroditus had learned to be cautious over the years. It was one thing to gossip about the emperor’s love life – everyone from saltmongers to senators did that – but it was something else to read aloud a work by a banished philosopher.

“I don’t mean that the discourse is overtly seditious,” said Epaphroditus. “Dio is far too subtle for that. But this work could be seen as… teasing the emperor.”

“You’ve set my curiosity ablaze,” said Martial. “What’s the subject?”

“Hair.”

“What?”

“Hair. A learned discourse on hair and its role in history and literature.”

They all laughed. Domitian was notoriously sensitive about his premature baldness. In his younger days he had been famously vain about his chestnut mane, and once, as a gift to a friend, he had even written a monograph on his secrets for hair care. After Domitian’s ascension to power, copies of the treatise proliferated overnight; every literate person in Roma had read it, but no one dared to mention it in the author’s presence. Was Dio’s encomium on hair meant to mock the balding emperor who had exiled him?

“Even the emperor cannot avoid the ravages of time,” observed Martial. He rose and circled the statue. “But our friend Melancomas shall never grow bald, or fat, or wrinkled, and if his lustrous hair should fade, it can always be repainted. How I envy his unchanging perfection! Ah, well, if our host is not going to share that new discourse from Dio, I’m off. I should get a bit of work done before the sun sets. Maybe I can make something of that notion about Pygmalion and Medusa after all. Or perhaps I’ll write a letter to Dio and give him the idea as a gift.”

“I’ll come with you.” Epictetus reached for his crutch and got to his feet with some difficulty. “I dine tonight with a prospective new patron. He wants to meet at the Baths of Titus, so I’d better be off. Are you leaving as well, Pinarius?”

Lucius began to rise, but Epaphroditus touched his arm.

“No, Lucius, stay a bit longer.”

When they were alone, Lucius looked expectantly at his host. “You look worried, Epaphroditus.”

“I am.” The older man sighed. “By all the gods, Lucius, what do you think you’re doing?”

“What are talking about, Epaphroditus?”

“I know the identity of your mystery woman.”

“How?”

“Lucius, Lucius, I’ve known you since you were a boy! Have you ever been able to keep a secret from me?”

Only about the role that Sporus played in Nero’s death, thought Lucius, but he said nothing and let Epaphroditus continue.

“Even before you spoke of her chastity, I knew who she must be. I’ve seen the two of you when you meet in public – the stiff greeting, the averted gazes, the intentional distance you keep between you. And I happen to know that she was absent from Roma during the period you spoke of. I must admit, I find it ironic that the vow she would not keep for a goddess, she will keep for a man. I won’t say her name aloud – what slaves don’t overhear, they can’t repeat – but you know whom I mean. Am I right?”

Lucius gazed at the Flavian Amphitheatre, which was surrounded by scaffolds and cranes; a new tier was being added to accommodate even more spectators. “Yes, you’re right.”

Epaphroditus shook his head. “Lucius, Lucius! What a terrible risk you’re taking. When I think of my promise to your father, to look after you-”

“I’m a grown man now and responsible for myself, Epaphroditus. Your promise to my father was long ago discharged.”

“Still, the danger-”

“We were always very careful, very discreet. I’m not even seeing her any more. We love each other at a distance.”

Epaphroditus shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “You don’t understand the gravity of the situation. Events are about to take place that will affect us all.”

“Events?”

“I didn’t want to talk about this in front of… the others.”

“In front of Martial, you mean?”

“Or Epictetus, either. Or even you, for that matter.” Epaphroditus paused to collect his thoughts. To Lucius he suddenly looked quite old, and more worn with cares than Lucius had seen him in many years. “You know I still have friends in the imperial household, even after so many changes and so many years. Sometimes I hear about things before they happen. My sources demand my utmost discretion, so usually I keep what I know to myself. Yes, I keep things even from you, Lucius. But there’s no point in shielding you now, seeing the danger you’re in. Domitian is about to revive the office of censor. He intends to assume the powers of the magistracy himself, permanently.”

“Didn’t his father do the same?”

“Yes, for a limited time and for a specific purpose. Vespasian conducted a census. That is one of the traditional functions of the censor, but it is not the function which interests Domitian.”

“I don’t understand. What else does a censor do?”

“Lucius, Lucius! Did you learn nothing of history when you were growing up? I know your father supplied the very best tutors for you.”

Lucius shrugged. “Why bother to learn about the institutions of the long-dead Republic, when all power now resides in the hands of one man and the rest of us count for nothing?”

Epaphroditus stifled his exasperation. “Once upon a time, when Roma was ruled by the Senate, the censor wielded great power – in some ways he was the most powerful man in the Republic, because he was responsible for keeping the official list of citizens, and it was the citizens who elected the magistrates. People didn’t vote as individuals, but in various blocks, determined by their wealth and other indicators of status. The censor determined in which block a man voted. That was important, because the voting blocks of the elite counted for more than those of the common rabble. And the censor could strike a citizen from the rolls altogether, which meant that citizen lost his right to vote.”

“And why might a censor do such a thing?”

“If a man committed a criminal offense, for example. Or, more to the point, if the man was guilty of offending public morals.”

“And who was the judge of that?”

“The censor, of course. And so, stemming from his duty to keep the voting rolls, the censor acquired another duty: to maintain public morals. If the censor declared a man guilty of immorality, he could not only strike that man from the voting rolls, but could deprive him of other rights, even throw him out of the Senate. The censorship began with a high purpose, but quickly devolved into a political tool, a way to punish enemies and destroy careers.”

Lucius shook his head. “I still don’t understand. Domitian already can install any man he wants in the Senate, or remove any man he pleases. And what do the senators matter, anyway? They have no real power. Never mind that pathetic decree they recently passed – ‘It is forbidden for the principal officer of the state to put to death any of his peers.’ The notion that the emperor is the first among equals is a fantasy, and the idea that they can constrain him with laws is wishful thinking. So why does Domitian want to make himself censor for life?”

“The office will provide him with a new and very powerful tool. Consider: if the emperor wishes to punish an enemy or a rival, and does so for no purpose but to protect his own authority, he acts as a tyrant. Conversely, he could charge his enemy with a real crime, like embezzling or murder, but that would require producing actual evidence. But in his role as censor, Domitian can cast himself as the guardian of public morality, acting for the good of everyone.”

“What constitutes an immoral act?”

“A list of offenses is being drawn up even as we speak. I saw an early draft. It includes adultery, which is defined as any sexual act performed by a married person which takes place outside the marriage.”

“But that’s absurd! Domitian himself slept with married women when he was younger. One of those women was the empress, who divorced her husband to marry him.”

“Domitian will also revive the old Scantinian law.”

“Refresh my memory.”

“It outlaws sexual acts between men in which a freeborn male is the penetrated partner.”

“Half the members of the imperial court consort with eunuchs!”

“Ah, but everyone assumes it’s the eunuchs who are penetrated, which is perfectly legal, since they’re all either slaves or freedmen. It’s the Roman citizen who plays the passive role who’ll be vulnerable to prosecution.”

Lucius frowned. “Domitian seriously intends to police the sexual behaviour of every Roman citizen?”

“Augustus had such a proclivity. He was quite ruthless when it came to punishing what he considered immorality within his own family, especially among the women. To be sure, when it came to dictating the morals of the citizenry, Augustus generally preferred to rely on inducements rather than penalties, giving tax benefits to married men with children and so forth. But I fear Domitian will use his power as censor to inflict a great deal of suffering.”

Lucius was not convinced. “Perhaps your fears are exaggerated. If Domitian wishes to make an example of a few particularly outrageous people-”