The Eyes of Aurora

by Albert A. Bell, Jr.

  I already knew who was going to be on the high couch with me. From the way everyone was standing, I deduced that my mother was to have the middle couch between Voconius Romanus and another friend of our family, Calestrius Tiro. Tacitus and his wife Julia were relegated to the lower couch.

  Voconius and Tiro happened to be in Rome on business and I had invited them to dinner before I even knew this would be a celebration. They had also been in court this morning. Despite my mother’s objections, I had insisted that Tacitus and Julia be invited because of Agricola’s role in our victory. My mother’s recent antipathy toward Tacitus, demonstrated to all by his placement in the least prestigious place at the table, was one more stone in a wall that she seems to be raising between herself and me.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, friends,” I said, spreading my hands in a gesture of greeting, “it is my pleasure to welcome you to my house and my table. Please, take your places and let’s begin.”

  I walked around to the position reserved for the host and was met by Pompeia, who grabbed my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks. “Thank you so much, Gaius Pliny. You were brilliant.”

  “I’m glad things turned out so well,” I said, prying her off me and guiding her to her place on the couch.

  Once she was settled, I snapped my fingers at Pylades and sent him out, daring him with the set of my jaw to look at my mother for a counter-order. Then I reclined in my own place as the host, and Aurora took her accustomed place, removing my sandals, wiping my feet with a wet cloth, and letting her hand rest on my foot a moment longer than necessary before she withdrew it. I didn’t need to look at my mother to feel the waves of anger rolling off her.

  “Good evening, Livilla,” I said. Her black hair was piled on top of her head and toward the front in what I assumed was the latest fashion. A strand of pearls ran through it. Her gown was lilac with a silver border. Her perfume, I had to admit, was enticing.

  “It’s nice to see you, Gaius,” she responded, glancing unhappily over her shoulder at Aurora, who kept her eyes down. She was reclining on both elbows, so she could talk with me more easily.

  Livilla will make a charming wife for some man. She is small, delicate, with a high forehead, blue eyes, and smooth, alabaster-like skin that needs little cosmetic enhancement, and she is wise enough to know that. She must resemble her deceased father, whom I never knew. Her mother is a stout woman with eyebrows that would grow together over her nose like a hedge if she didn’t pluck them assiduously. She seems to apply her cosmetics with a mason’s trowel. If her older daughter does truly resemble her, I had to wonder how she had found a husband.

  My mother had assigned servants to wait on Voconius and Tiro. Tacitus and Julia had brought a handful of their own, as had Pompeia and Livilla. Mother’s closest companion, the slave Naomi, sat behind her, with another, younger girl to assist her.

  A hired auloi player seated in one corner of the room took up her instrument, accompanied by a woman softly plucking a lyre. I have musicians in my household, but Mother said she especially wanted these two, who were gaining renown all over Rome.

  The music was the signal for the servants to bring in the gustatio—lentils from Egypt, kale cooked in vinegar and salt, pickled broccoli and carrots, and snails, stewed and salted. The snails were served with our silver cochlearia. Guests could use the spoon end to scoop up the snails or the thin sharp handle to spear them.

  I’ve often thought the handle of a cochlearia would make a fine murder weapon. Being so sharp and as long as a man’s hand, it would penetrate deeply—straight into the heart, for instance—with very little effort. Even if the person was as thick and heavy as Pompeia.

  Before my musing could turn any darker, a final dish was placed on the tables—dormice, fattened in clay pots and roasted. Mother had outdone herself.

  “There was a conversation going on when I came in,” I said, in an effort to break the tension that made the room feel as tightly wound as one of the lyre player’s strings. “What was the topic?”

  “We were talking about the October Horse,” Voconius said. “I’ve never been in Rome at this time of year before, so it was my first chance to see it.”

  “Wasn’t it every bit as barbaric as I told you it would be?” Tiro asked. Like most of my compatriots from the north of Italy, he has dark hair and frank, open features. One of the most jovial men I know, he’s a few years older than Voconius and I, already thickening a bit in his waist and chest.

  “Oh, it was all that and more,” Voconius said, popping a piece of broccoli in his mouth. “We see animals sacrificed all the time, but I’ve never seen one fight like that horse did.”

  “Sheep and oxen are docile by comparison,” Tacitus said. “Oxen have their horns to fight with, but nothing is quite as deadly as a horse’s hooves. Oxen can’t rear like a horse. A blow to the head drops them.”

  “I suppose any male animal would resist,” Voconius said, hiding a smile behind his cup, “if he had any suspicion about what was going to be cut off.”

  Amid the laughter that went around the table, Livilla said, “They cut off the head and the tail, don’t they?”

  We men all looked at one another, waiting for someone to explain a delicate subject to the child. Tacitus, being the only married man in the group, finally said, “The word ‘tail’ is a euphemism, my dear Livilla, for the part that’s cut off. Cicero says, ‘Our ancestors called the penis a tail.’ ”

  Livilla blinked as though thinking for a moment. “But if…that’s what they cut off, why…why do they say they cut off the tail?”

  Voconius chuckled. “It might be because of the way men react anytime there’s a reference to cutting off…that particular part.” He squeezed his thighs together and bent over. The older women lowered their eyes and tried to hide their smiles.

  Because the topic of conversation was becoming repellent to me, I cast my gaze around the room, stopping at the door as my steward, Demetrius, entered the triclinium. A stalwart fellow anyway, at that moment he looked like a man with a purpose. He came to stand behind me, leaning down.

  “Excuse me, my lord,” he said softly, as I looked over my shoulder at him, “but there’s someone to see you. He says it’s urgent.”

  II

  Normally I would have been annoyed with Demetrius for intruding into dinner, but I welcomed any break in this strain of conversation. My mother, though, had heard him and did not share my enthusiasm.

  “Business? At this hour?” she snapped. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  Demetrius leaned closer to me and this time whispered, “It’s Nestor, my lord. He’s in the Ovid room.”

  “Tell him I’ll be right there.” I raised myself up and sat on the edge of the couch. “Ladies and gentlemen, will you please excuse me?”

  Livilla had heard the name. “Nestor? Isn’t he—”

  “This doesn’t concern you…dear. I’ll be back shortly.”

  From across the room Tacitus looked up with a question on his face.

  “Would you come with me?” I said. Aurora slipped my sandals on and the servant behind Tacitus assisted him.

  Nestor is Regulus’ steward. His real name is Jacob. He was among the prisoners taken after the fall of Jerusalem and fell to my uncle’s lot, along with Naomi and her son Phineas, now my scribe. My uncle sold a number of those slaves, including Jacob, to a dealer who, unbeknownst to him, was working for Regulus. He would never have sold any slave to Regulus, he told me with deep regret.

  Because Jacob is such a good steward, Regulus has refused to sell or emancipate him, even though he is getting on in years. Behind Regulus’ back, I have had some dealings with Jacob over the past few years. I have never asked him to spy for me, and he would refuse if I did ask him, but we talk whenever we have a chance. Since Regulus and I live within sight of one another on the Esquiline Hill, it’s easy for Jacob to stop by when he’s out on an errand.

  One thing I don’t understand is Naomi’s disdain for Jacob. I wo
uld think that, being of the same race and religion, taken captive at the same time and place, they would feel some camaraderie. They did not know one another in Jerusalem and Naomi, when she will speak of him at all, calls Jacob a traitor. I once asked her if he attended her synagogue or if there was another one in Rome. She said he does not attend any synagogue, but she would not elaborate. I concluded that Jacob’s experience in the war taught him that his god was of little use and Naomi feels he has betrayed their religion, to which she adheres fervently. As one who does not believe in any god, I can respect Jacob for knowing when he has outgrown childhood myths.

  I wish my mother weren’t so attracted to Judaism, due to Naomi’s influence. Phineas says my mother even offers prayers for me when she goes with them to their synagogue. I can’t try to break the friendship because it obviously means so much to my mother. Both she and Naomi lost children at birth years ago and have never quite recovered. Both have lost husbands and, a few years ago, both lost a brother. They support one another in their grief. No bond is stronger among women than shared sorrow over the men and children they’ve nurtured and lost.

  We found Jacob in the room decorated with frescos based on ­Ovid’s Metamorphoses—Pygmalion fashioning the statue that became his beloved; Pyramus and Thisbe, the lovers who could be together only in death; and Baucis and Philemon, who asked the gods that they might die at the same time so neither would have to live without the other. I had chosen those stories because they appeal to me for several reasons, one being that they are told only by Ovid, another being my attraction to any story about a man who gets to be with the woman he loves, no matter what it costs him.

  I felt a bit silly receiving a guest in my dinner garb, but he was another man’s slave, not one of my peers, and the late hour excused the need for formality. Demetrius had lit some lamps and Jacob stood as Tacitus and I entered the room and closed the door. Like all of Regulus’ slaves he was dressed better than most free men in Rome, in a light brown tunic with a dark green edging around the sleeves, neck, and hem. On a strap around his neck he carried a pouch, the sort of thing in which one sends messages. The flap was closed with a seal, no doubt Regulus’.

  “My lord, thank you for seeing me,” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

  “It was a relief to get away from that table. Is something wrong?”

  Tacitus took a seat and I gestured for Jacob to take the remaining chair, partly in deference to his gray hair and partly out of respect for a man whose nobility of character raises him above any man he might have to call his “master.”

  Jacob’s wrinkled face betrayed his agitation. “I thought I should warn you, my lord. Regulus is in an absolute rage because you won that case so handily today. He’s blaming everyone but himself. He’s threatening to withhold the donative from all his clients for the rest of the month because the ones who were in court didn’t make enough noise to sway the jury.”

  “Well, they were up against some strong opposition,” Tacitus said.

  Smiling, Jacob turned to Tacitus. “They certainly were. Thank you, my lord, and please convey my thanks—and the thanks of many in our household—to Julius Agricola.”

  His face became somber as he directed his attention back to me. “But I’m afraid that Regulus is devising some plan to get revenge on you, my lord. In all the years I’ve known him, I have never seen him so consumed by anger. He’s sending word through his whole network of spies. You will be watched wherever you go and attacked whenever they perceive an opening. In addition, he has sent me out tonight with a message for Domitian.” He patted the leather pouch.

  My breathing quickened. “Do you have any idea what’s in it?”

  “No, my lord. He sealed both the message and the pouch.”

  “Why is he sending you to deliver it?” Tacitus asked. “Meaning no offense, but he must have younger and faster slaves.”

  “He certainly does, my lord, and I take no offense. But I am the only servant in his house whom he does not suspect of being a spy for someone else.”

  “The only one he can trust not to break the seals,” I said.

  Jacob put a hand on the pouch. “But I am willing to do so, my lord, if it means saving your life.”

  I shook my head. “No. It would cost you yours, and I can’t have that on my conscience.”

  Jacob sat back in his chair. “I would expect no other answer from you, my lord.” Relief washed over his face. Until that moment I guess he wasn’t entirely sure whether I valued my life more than his.

  “Perhaps it’s just as well I’m planning to be out of town for a few days.”

  “Will you be far away, my lord?”

  “No, just down the Ostian Way. While Tacitus and I were on the Bay of Naples, Aurora befriended a woman who was trying to find her lost husband. She put the woman and her son up at an inn and has asked us to go down there and see what we can do for her. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.”

  “A true good Samaritan,” Jacob said with the smile of a man who has a deeper understanding than you do of something you’ve just said.

  “A what?” I knew Samaritans lived north of Judaea, but they had no particular reputation for goodness, as far as I knew.

  “Nothing, my lord. I was just reminded of a story I once heard, about a man who befriends someone who is bereft, puts him up at an inn, and pays for his expenses. It’s of no consequence. I’m glad you’ll be away, but I doubt that mere distance will prevent Regulus from striking. And he will hit at your family and your friends—anyone connected with you. Even without knowing what’s in this message, I fear for your safety just walking on the streets of Rome. For the safety of anyone in your familia, for that matter. I could not rest tonight until I warned you.”

  “I appreciate the risk you’ve taken,” I said.

  “I’m happy to do what little I can, my lord, for someone who has been so kind to those I love.” He stood with some difficulty and touched the pouch. “Now I must finish my errand and get back before I’m missed.”

  “Let me see you out,” I said. “Cornelius Tacitus, please tell the others that I’ll be back in the triclinium in just a moment.”

  When we reached the door and I was sure no one was in earshot, I leaned in close to Jacob. “What do you hear from Nomentum?” I had given a piece of property in that area, northeast of Rome, to Valerius Martial and a woman named Lorcis, a former slave of Regulus’ who had helped me save my mother during the eruption of Vesuvius. I’d given the farm to Lorcis, really, but I needed a man’s name to put on the deed. Martial just happened to be the father of her child and her husband, more or less.

  “I was out there at the beginning of the month, my lord. Everyone is doing well.”

  “Erotion is about three now, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, my lord. And the prettiest, most charming child one can imagine. A little love, indeed.”

  I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for them.”

  Closing the door behind Jacob, I turned to look for Demetrius. I found him in the atrium, keeping a respectful distance but obviously curious about my whispered conversation with another man’s slave, at this late hour, and my gesture of friendship. I motioned for him to join me in a quiet corner.

  “Is something wrong, my lord?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you have any idea why my mother is acting the way she is right now? You see her and deal with her as much as I do, perhaps more. Why is she so set on me getting married?”

  I can’t remember a time when I did not know Demetrius. We are usually as comfortable in one another’s presence as an older and a younger brother, but tonight he seemed not to know what to do with his hands.

  “She does seem anxious lately, my lord. And I’ve noticed that she sometimes forgets things. Naomi might be able to help you understand what’s happening. If I may say so, I think she has chosen an ideal wife for you. Livilla is a lovely girl, quite demure. And her family
is a good match for ours.”

  “But I don’t understand why it has suddenly become so important to her that I get married. My uncle never married. You didn’t marry until you were thirty.” Demetrius had married another of my uncle’s slaves, an Egyptian, and they have two darling little girls who call me “Uncle Gaius.”

  Demetrius took a deep breath. “My lord, if I may be so bold, I think you do understand. You just don’t want to admit the reason to yourself, like a man who’s blinded by the sun rising at dawn but says he can’t see it. At dawn, my lord.”

  In all the years that Demetrius has served me and my family I had never felt so strong an urge to strike him. I clutched my robe to keep my hands at my sides. “You are going beyond bold. You are downright impudent.”

  He lowered his head. “Forgive me, my lord. You know how much I love you and your family and how grateful I am to be able to raise my own family here. But there comes a time when some things must be said. Is that all?”

  “No.” I took a deep breath to throttle my anger. “There is one more matter I need to discuss with you.”

  * * *

  I’m sorry Gaius didn’t ask me to come with him and Tacitus. I feel like everybody in this room is staring at me. His mother could more accurately be said to be glaring at me. I know she despised my mother, but why do I have to inherit that hatred?

  When I was younger I wrote about some adventures that Gaius and I had, watching what people were doing in the streets of Rome and around his uncle’s estates. Several times we helped his uncle investigate people’s misdoings because no one ever suspects a child of being a spy. No one will ever read those accounts, of course, and I’ve stopped doing such a childish thing. Those scrolls are locked away in a box my mother left me.

  I wish I could write about how I feel about Gaius now. I can’t tell anyone, but the simple act of putting the words on a piece of papyrus would be almost as good as sharing them with another person. I have to keep my feelings a secret, and there are no secrets in a house like this. You’d think in a house so large and with so many nooks and crannies that you could hide something, but it’s not possible. Someone would find anything I wrote, and then his mother would probably insist that he sell me to a brothel. That’s where she thought my mother belonged. She never did understand how much my mother and the old man—as Gaius and I called him—loved one another. I never quite understood it, either. Gaius’ uncle was fat and snored awfully. But, like Gaius, he was a gentle man who always treated my mother with respect and love.