THE EYES
OF
AURORA
A FIFTH CASE FROM THE
NOTEBOOKS OF PLINY THE YOUNGER
Albert A. Bell, Jr.
MMXIII
PERSEVERANCE PRESS | JOHN DANIEL & COMPANY
PALO ALTO | MCKINLEYVILLE, CALIFORNIA
This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.
The interior design and the cover design of this book are intended for and limited to the publisher’s first print edition of the book and related marketing display purposes. All other use of those designs without the publisher’s permission is prohibited.
Copyright © 2014 by Albert A. Bell, Jr.
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-56474-784-6
A Perseverance Press Book
Published by John Daniel & Company
A division of Daniel & Daniel, Publishers, Inc.
Post Office Box 2790
McKinleyville, California 95519
www.danielpublishing.com/perseverance
Distributed by SCB Distributors (800) 729-6423
Book design by Eric Larson, Studio E Books, Santa Barbara, www.studio-e-books.com
Cover painting: “Aurora” © by Chi Meredith
Egg tempera on panel
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Bell, Albert A.,(date)
The eyes of Aurora : a fifth case from the notebooks of Pliny, the younger / by Albert A. Bell, Jr.
pages cm.
ISBN [first print edition] 978-1-56474-549-1 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Pliny, the Younger—Fiction. 2. Tacitus, Cornelius—Fiction.
3 . Women household employees—Fiction. 4. Rome—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.E485E94 2014
813’.54—dc23
2014008705
For Jacob E. Nyenhuis
“Jack”
Longtime friend and mentor, and the only person who ever offered me a job in academia
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
CAST OF CHARACTERS
GLOSSARY OF TERMS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It goes without saying that I am extremely grateful to Perseverance Press and my editor, Meredith Phillips, for the confidence they’ve placed in me. I also need to thank, as I have in all my books, my writers’ group, the West Michigan Writers’ Workshop, for their feedback, encouragement, and morale boosts during the writing of this book and over the decade and more that I’ve been part of the group. And I need to thank my wife, not just as a formality but because of how much she means to me.
*
An aspect of this book that may make some readers uneasy is one character’s attraction to young girls. I intend nothing salacious and I don’t dwell on it; it is simply a plot point. We need to recognize that, in the ancient world, girls became women when they reached puberty. It was quite common for a girl of thirteen or fourteen to be married. There was no such thing as adolescence as we know it for girls. Pliny writes about a friend’s daughter who died shortly before her wedding, when she “was not yet fourteen” (Ep. 5.16). His own beloved Calpurnia was about that age when Pliny, about forty years old, married her. Numerous inscriptions mention girls in their late teens who have died, most likely in childbirth.
This book introduces one new feature, which I feel I need to comment on. The character Aurora first appeared briefly in The Blood of Caesar, the second book in this series. She played a larger role in The Corpus Conundrum and figured significantly in Death in the Ashes. I decided that it was finally time to let her speak in her own voice, not just have Pliny reporting what she said. After all, the book is titled The Eyes of Aurora, and not just because I needed an E word to maintain the alphabetic sequence of titles in the series. Throughout this book, then, the reader will hear what Aurora is thinking, in separate sections set off in italics.
Readers, and my students, sometimes tell me that the Roman names are hard to keep track of. If I could name them all John and Bob, I would. The Cast List at the end of the book should help, and the Glossary will explain unfamiliar terms.
I
Voconius Romanus, a longime friend, raised his cup in a toast to the bust of my uncle. We were standing next to the pedestal on which the bust sits in my favorite corner of the garden in my house on the Esquiline Hill on the east side of Rome. “The old man would have been proud of you, Gaius Pliny.”
I allowed myself a modest smile. “I would like to think so. For winning the case, but even more, for beating Regulus.”
“You didn’t just beat him, my friend.” Voconius, a thin, wiry man, clapped me on the shoulder. “You utterly humiliated him. If it had been a gladiatorial combat, they would have jabbed hooks into his heels and dragged his bloated corpse out of the arena.”
Though I detest the games, I liked that image. “I have to admit I was surprised by the margin of victory, even though I was confident that my speech was good.”
“Good? No. It was superb. How could you have doubted yourself?”
“You don’t have to flatter me to get your dinner.” Although I didn’t mind hearing a bit of praise. Who does? “When I was working on it these last two days I felt something I might even call inspiration.”
Voconius gave his throaty laugh. “Watch out. If you don’t believe in gods, you can’t believe in Muses who are the daughters of a god.”
“You’re right. That’s a logical impossibility.”
“And I’ve never known you to be guilty of such a thing. Will you send me a copy of the speech?” Originally from Spain, Voconius had settled near my home town of Comum. We exchange our writings for criticism and revision.
“I certainly will. My scribe will make a fresh copy.”
“I noticed him scribbling furiously.”
“Yes, with the Tironian notation he can capture any changes I make while speaking.”
“Tironian notation can be deadly.”
I looked at him in bewilderment.
“Remember that Augustus had a fellow stabbed to death on the spot for transcribing one of his speeches.”
And Augustus was one of the good emperors. “I didn’t say anything politically provocative. There were a few spontaneous moments. Although I won’t call them inspired, I do like to have them preserved.”
Voconius threw his head back and laughed. “I just wish there was some way we could preserve the image of the veins swelling in Regulus’ temples and neck, his face getting redder and redder. And he just kept getting louder.”
“As Cicero says, ‘Orators are most vehement when their cause is weak.’ ”
I closed my eyes and called up the vision of the end of the trial this morning in the Centumviral Court, a scene I hope I will still be able to see if I live to be an old man. Marcus Aquilius Regulus was acting on behalf of Quintus Vibius, whom I was prosecuting for embezzling 200,000 sesterces from the widow Pompeia Celerina, cousin of my uncle and mother and the mother of my bride-to-be.
Other trials had ground to a halt as participants and spectators turned their attention to Regulus and me. The prosecution i
s often at a disadvantage because the defense speaks last, but when the iudex called for the vote, thirty-five of the jurors stepped to my side and only ten to Regulus’. The crowd erupted in applause.
“So now your future mother-in-law adores you,” Voconius said.
Back to harsh reality. I stepped away from my uncle’s bust and sat on the bench beside it, under a trellis that supported an ornamental vine. Voconius joined me.
“Yes,” I said dispiritedly. “She sent a message an hour ago that the money Vibius embezzled has been returned to her house, along with the fine imposed by the court.”
“So quickly? Didn’t the fellow spend it?”
“Oh, I’m sure Regulus paid it and I pity Vibius. Regulus will extract a painful repayment, with heavy interest, probably in the form of bits of his flesh.”
“I suspect he’s not done with you either.”
I nodded slowly. “How he’ll get his revenge on me, I can only guess. You know he’s been waging a war against my family for over twenty years. It drags on like Rome and Carthage. Losing one battle will just make him more determined to win the next one.”
“Well, enjoy this victory as long as you can.” Voconius drained his cup. “Nothing lasts forever. This wine, for instance, isn’t staying with me for long, so I’m going to stop in the latrina before we have dinner.”
When Voconius left I had the moment of repose for which I had come into the garden. The last two days had passed in a blur that was only now beginning to clear, like a fog lifting off a bay.
Yesterday morning Julius Agricola, the father-in-law of my dear friend Cornelius Tacitus, had appeared at my door with a hundred of his veterans. Agricola and his men live on estates and farms of various sizes to the north and east of Rome. Tacitus’ wife, without his knowledge, had sent a message asking her father to come and support me in court. His men camped out in my atrium and garden and whatever empty rooms we could find in the house. This morning I was accompanied to the Forum by my own clients and Agricola’s century. Even without their weapons, it was an impressive procession. No one even tried to stay on the sidewalks in front of us. Regulus went pale when we walked up to the steps of the Basilica Julia, where the trial was held.
The whole crowd in the Forum buzzed when they realized Agricola was there. I could hear his name flitting from one person to the next, like a rumor buzzing through the marketplace. No one had seen him in several months. His popularity has only risen since Domitian recalled him from Britain and sent him into a sort of genteel exile. Everyone knows Agricola could be princeps if he chose to. Agricola knows it, and so does Domitian. What makes me nervous is that Domitian also knows that Agricola’s son-in-law is my closest friend.
I took a sip of wine and shivered slightly. The weather’s changing, that’s all, I assured myself. It is the middle of October, and the linen dinner robe I’m wearing is lighter than a tunic or a toga. It’s made for indoor wear, not for musing in a garden on a fall evening.
I believe my speech was good enough in its own right to win, but it certainly helped that Regulus’ supporters were far outnumbered and shouted down every time they tried to express their approval of their patron. Agricola’s men had even brought small pieces of wood which they clapped together. Most importantly, he did a good job of keeping his men under control, ignoring provocations from Regulus’ clients. An outbreak of violence would have been a disaster for him as well as for me. Agricola and his men departed immediately after the case was settled. I hadn’t asked him to do that, but he knew his continued presence in the city would provoke some reaction from Domitian.
“I thought I would find you here.” Tacitus, whose friendship I’ve come to cherish over the last two years, emerged from the shadows and sat down on the bench beside me. He is almost a head taller than I am. Most men of that size intimidate me, but an air of friendliness and good humor emanates from Tacitus as soon as you meet him. And yet I’ve learned that his perception of people is keen and deep.
I slid over to make room for him. “Since I was a child this has been the place I’ve retreated to when I needed to be quiet for a while, to renew my strength.” I put my head back against the wall and looked up. The reddening sky was clear. It would be a chilly evening. “This day has been exhausting.”
“It won’t get any more peaceful, I’m afraid. The rest of your guests have arrived.”
I let out a long sigh as my shoulders sagged.
“Be prepared,” Tacitus said. “Pompeia is kissing and embracing everyone. She may be all over you like a cheap whore this evening. All she can talk about is how brilliant her son-in-law is.”
“Future son-in-law,” I snapped. “How many times do I have to remind people? Future son-in-law.”
Tacitus shook his head like a man delivering bad news. “That’s not how your mother and Pompeia see it. Livilla, your blushing bride-to-be, is going to be reclining on the couch next to you tonight, with her mother on the other side of her.” He used the diminutive form of Livia’s name, as is common for the younger sister in a family.
“Livilla? Next to me? That’s not…not proper. She and her mother belong on the middle couch.”
“Your mother says Livilla is family now—even closer than just a cousin—not a guest, so she should recline next to you.”
“Damn that woman!”
“She could have done worse by you, you know. She could have gotten you engaged to the older daughter. At least you get the pretty one.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the older girl.”
“You would remember her, if you had. She’s a year older than you and, the last time I saw her, well on her way to becoming the image of her stumpy, heavyset mother. And a nagging shrew into the bargain.”
“Where does she live?”
“She’s been in Spain for the last two years. Her husband, Liburnius, is serving on the staff of the current governor. He and I were quaestors together a few years ago, right after the eruption of Vesuvius. I was at his wedding.”
“Well, I guess ‘my’ Livilla is going to be reclining beside me for some time to come, so let’s go face the inevitable.”
Tacitus wagged a finger at me. “You know, if we had kept up the traditions of the old Republic, the women would be sitting in chairs behind our couches. That would solve this problem—and many others.”
“For once I’m inclined to approve of your devotion to the ideals of the Republic.” I raised my cup to my uncle’s bust again. “We who are about to die salute you.”
*
Tacitus and I were crossing the darkening garden toward the front part of the house when I heard a woman crying behind the shrubbery. It had to be a servant, since my mother is the only woman in the house who’s not a servant, either slave or freedwoman, and she would not vent her tears behind a bush. Normally I don’t concern myself when my female servants become upset—a problem better left to my mother or my steward to deal with—but I was eager for any excuse to stay out of the triclinium for even a few more moments. I put my cup on a bench.
“Who is that?” I asked, taking a step toward a form huddled between the shrubbery and the garden wall. “Show yourself.”
Like Venus rising out of the ocean foam, Aurora emerged from the bushes, her eyes red from weeping. Her mother, Monica, had been my uncle’s slave and mistress. Aurora and I have known one another since she arrived in this house when we were both seven. She has always enjoyed a privileged status in my familia and has gone from being my playmate to being my personal attendant—and has become the woman I love but cannot have. My mother deeply resented her brother’s relationship with Aurora’s mother and, since Monica’s death, has turned that animosity toward her daughter.
I put a hand on Aurora’s shoulder. “What’s the matter? Why aren’t you in the triclinium?” Aurora always waits on me at dinners of this sort, sitting on a stool behind my couch. The touch of her hand on my foot—just my awareness that she’s nearby—can help me endure the most tense or most tedio
us evenings. From the way she was dressed, in a green gown with yellow trim and a necklace that had belonged to her mother, I knew she was planning on waiting on me.
“Your mother sent me away. She said Pylades would wait on you.”
“Damn that woman again! How far does she think she can go in arranging my life?” I took Aurora’s hand and started toward the triclinium.
“Gaius, wait.” She pulled back. We have an understanding that she may address me by my praenomen when no one else is around, as she did when we were children. This was the first time she’d done so in Tacitus’ presence. I heard his quick intake of breath, but he didn’t say anything.
“What is it?” I asked impatiently.
“Maybe it would be better if I were not there tonight. Your mother is so upset she even called me Monica. With Livilla next to you and your mother so…determined to be rid of me, it will make everyone uncomfortable.”
“I don’t care about everyone. The fact that Livilla’s going to be next to me is all the more reason I need you there. I’ll be uncomfortable.”
“Yes, my lord. As you wish.” Aurora lowered her eyes, her soft brown eyes. She and her mother came from the area around Carthage, so there is something Punic in her—the thick brown hair and long slender face, but especially the eyes. Sometimes I wonder if those eyes were what Aeneas saw when he gazed on Dido’s face. It took a direct command from Jupiter to drag him away from them. What would it take—
“Gaius Pliny, your guests are waiting,” Tacitus reminded me.
*
Tacitus and I entered the triclinium side by side, with Aurora following us, her hands demurely folded in front of her and her head down. All conversation stopped, as abruptly as though someone had slammed a door. The room, the smaller of two indoor dining rooms in my house, has a mosaic floor with sea creatures worked in it and frescoes of several mythological banqueting scenes, standard fare for a triclinium, but nicely done by my uncle. I’ve seen no reason to redo it, as I did the atrium. Tonight it was set up with only three couches, with a table for each couch and a central table where the servants would present the dishes and cut up those that needed it.
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