Domitian by S.J.A. Turney

Author:S.J.A. Turney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Canelo Digital Publishing Ltd
Published: 2022-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

XVII

The Capuan

Rome, February, AD 79

The aftermath of that killing was somewhat predictable. For the better part of a year, Titus had railed and snarled at Domitian every time they crossed paths. The older brother knew what had happened as much as any of us, but, just like everyone else, he had no proof. He’d even gone as far as to demand Caecina’s arrest, but his father had refused him and told him to drop the matter.

That had only changed things a little. With Vespasian’s refusal to pursue any response, Titus was impotent to act, and what developed between the brothers could only be described as an icy distance. Twice, Domitian uncovered agents of Titus in his house, seeking anything he could use to bring Caecina down, but to no avail.

I did begin to notice as the months came and went that Caecina began once more to involve himself in politics, though carefully and subtly. I could never quite be sure of what he was up to with his alliances and machinations, though I felt certain it would be aimed at Titus.

I privately formed the opinion that Caecina was doing everything he could to keep Domitian and Titus at each other’s throats, to what end I could not say. I think that even with Mucianus dead, Caecina saw Domitian as his doorway to power, and Titus as a roadblock. But, to Domitian’s credit, he continually kept Caecina’s plans in check, and actually attempted to heal the rift with his brother as far as he could, though that was not far. Those spies who were found were given nothing more than a slap on the backside and sent back to Titus.

As we rolled on into the next year, things became a little easier, though with the brothers continuing to endure an ever-frosty relationship. Finally, the city settled once more. The emperor’s sons were rarely to be found in one another’s presence, but both were avidly loyal to their father.

In fact, with little of note in either trouble or success, three years passed, a rare occurrence these days. Then, on one seemingly innocuous morning, I was summoned by the emperor’s younger son.

‘This seems oddly familiar,’ I murmured as we moved through the Flavian house. Domitian led, and apart from he and I, the only other person present was one of his slaves, a burly fellow with a mean-looking scar on his forehead.

The house was eerie in its deserted echoing halls. Gradually, over the decade Vespasian had ruled Rome, he and his family had spent less and less time at the old family domus in Pomegranate Street. Flavius still lived nearby in his father’s old house with a family of his own, but Vespasian’s house had now lain empty, cold and dark for several years, visited only by slaves on errands, while the imperial family resided on the Palatine.

I couldn’t really remember the last time I had been in the place, but I could very well remember the last time I had come through these particular rooms.

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