“Can you arrange it?”
“Since you didn’t rub my nose in the fact that you gave me the place—or rather gave it to Lorcis—yes, I’ll see what I can do. When would you like for this meeting to take place?”
“Tomorrow, if at all possible, by midday.”
“Hmm. Sounds urgent. What shall I say is the purpose of this meeting?”
“I can’t tell you what it’s about. All I can say is that it is indeed urgent.”
“Are there any special conditions you want to impose?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but I knew the most important one. “Ask him to keep his retinue as small as possible. Tell him he should bring one other person to be in the room with him, and I will bring one. They should be people that we trust absolutely.”
I already knew that, for me, that person would be Aurora. I would have chosen her even if Tacitus were available.
“And Lorcis and I should arrange to be elsewhere?”
“She doesn’t want to see her former master again, does she?”
“I doubt it. She named our largest hog Regulus. I know she’s looking forward to slaughtering him, though she may castrate him first.”
I flinched at the word, as most men do. Lorcis had been mistreated by Regulus, even worse than slave women are often mistreated by heartless masters. I hoped she could be satisfied with a symbolic revenge.
“Very well, then,” I said. “Come to dinner tonight and let me know what you’ve been able to arrange.”
*
When I returned to the house the women were finishing their baths. In my house, as in most homes with their own baths, the women take their turn in the late morning, allowing them time to prepare lunch and leaving the room free for the men in the afternoon. In the houses of Domitian’s most devoted sycophants men and women now bathe together, a practice which the princeps recently introduced in the public baths.
My topiarius, appropriately named Melanchthon, was pruning shrubbery in the garden, a job his father did for my uncle for years. Aurora and Crispina were sitting by the fishpond in the middle of the garden. Crispina, wearing a clean gown, with her hair combed and arranged, did not look like the madwoman she had seemed to be last night. Aurora stood when I approached them.
This was the first time I’d seen Aurora today. I had stayed in my room for the morning, writing and wondering when my mother’s and Pompeia’s wrath would fall on me because I had driven Livilla away. The relief I felt was largely offset by the knowledge that I would be facing serious consequences for a long time to come. I wished I knew whom she had told about her decision. What reason had she given?
What did this mean for Aurora and me? From the look she gave me, I could see that she wanted to ask me about Livilla’s visit the previous night but knew she had no right to bring up the subject.
For now I had to focus on the problem I might be able to do something about. “How are you feeling today?” I asked Crispina.
“I’m better, sir. Thank you for yer kindness.” Although she looked refreshed, her voice was flat and lifeless, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond me. “I’ll ne’er be right ag’in, but you’ve helped me a great deal a’ready.”
Aurora patted the woman’s shoulder. “I told her that you had made arrangements for a funeral for Fabia, my lord.”
I trusted that Aurora would not have told her about the fire in the shed and the knife—my knife—in her dead daughter’s chest. We should spare the poor woman as much heartache as possible. Her glance reassured me.
“That was most gen’rous of you, sir,” Crispina said. “I won’t be imposin’ on your hospitality much longer. We’d best be leavin’. I think by tomorrow at the latest.”
“You don’t need to be in a hurry,” I said. “Stay and rest for a few days. You and your son need some time to recover from what you’ve been through.”
She took my hand and kissed it. “Oh, sir, you’ve been so kind. I just didn’t know where I might go and be safe.”
“Do you think your husband would harm the boy?”
“I didn’t think so, sir. But I ne’er would’ve thought he’d do what he done to Fabia, no matter how he felt about her.” She raised her hands, then dropped them helplessly back in her lap. “I just don’t know what he’s capable of.”
I took her chin and raised it. That seemed to be the only way to get her to look at me. “Don’t despair. I’m going to protect you and your son. And I’m going to do everything I can to find your husband and stop his mad plan. Now, get something to eat and don’t worry about staying here a while longer. You’re quite welcome.”
I actually wanted her to stay because I needed to talk to her again about Popilius. Whatever she could tell me about him might help me devise a strategy against him. Someone who knows the working of your opponent’s mind can be as helpful to you as an extra cohort of troops. But can one ever fathom the mind of a madman? Success in a venture of this sort depended on being able to predict, to some degree, what my opponent might do. An unbalanced mind like Popilius’ was likely to be entirely unpredictable.
Before I could turn away, Crispina said, “Forgive my boldness, sir, but last night, as I was on my way to my room after I’d said g’night to my boy, I saw a young lady comin’ out of your lib’ry. Pretty little slip of a thing. Was that your bride-to-be?”
“Yes, it was.” I bristled at the intrusion. In a double sense, I thought. It was Livilla and she was my bride-to-be.
“She looked right upset. I hope there’s no hard feelin’s between you.”
“We had some matters to talk about.”
“Don’t let nobody come between the two of you, sir, if I may offer my advice.” She looked askance at Aurora.
“I’m always eager to hear unsolicited advice,” I said, uncertain if she knew the meaning of the adjective.
“Yes, it’s a terrible thing when somebody interferes between a man and a woman. A terrible thing.”
“I’m sure we all agree on that,” I said. “Now, if you’re up to it, I need to ask you about one more thing.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Did you know that your stepdaughter was carrying a child?”
“A child? Fabia? Sir, she was hardly more than a child herself. What makes you think—”
“I noticed her condition when I was examining her body.”
“But, sir, that couldn’t be.”
“It certainly was.”
Crispina pulled away from Aurora, got up, and walked—almost ran—out of the garden.
*
As I turned toward the bath I heard the voices of children coming from the rear of the garden—the familiar voices of two young girls and another, unfamiliar voice. It had to be Hashep and Dakla and, most likely, young Clodius. I assumed the girls were doing their lessons and keeping poor Clodius occupied. Two years ago I assigned Phineas the task of teaching the girls to read and write. Hashep has caught on quickly, while Dakla struggles.
Hashep’s musical voice rose over her sister’s, reciting a piece of poetry and feeling her way toward a song in the process. They were sitting so that their backs were to me and all I could see was their heads over the shrubbery. Drawing closer to them, I tried to decipher what Hashep was saying. A few of the words seemed familiar. Then recognition struck, and I hurried around a bend in the path to where they sat.
Phineas jumped to his feet and motioned for the girls to do likewise. Hashep has her Egyptian mother’s dark features and straight, inky-black hair. Dakla resembles her Roman father, Demetrius, in her thick body and curly brown hair. The boy with them had sandy-colored hair and big brown eyes, sad eyes. Uncertain of himself, he stood with the girls.
I’ve always been casual in my treatment of these girls. Until recently they called me “Uncle Gaius,” but now Hashep has taken to calling me “my lord.”
“Uncle Gaius,” Dakla said, “this is our friend Clodius.”
“Welcome, Clodius,” I said.
“Thank you, my lo
rd, Uncle Gaius. Do you know where my papa is?”
“Not right now, but I intend to find him.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope you do.”
I turned to Phineas. “But first I have to deal with this rascal. Is that what I think it is?”
“It’s your poem, my lord, the one about autumn that you asked me to find.” He seemed pleased with himself.
“Find it, yes, not share it with everyone, including a visitor in my house.” I could feel my face reddening. “Did you tack it up in the Forum?”
“I’m sorry, my lord. I…I thought the girls would enjoy reading it, since it is autumn. You’ve let them hear other poetry of yours.” That was his plea of “not guilty.”
“Not anything this juvenile.” I took the piece of papyrus from his hand.
“It’s pretty, Uncle Gaius,” Dakla said.
“Did you compose a tune to go with it, my lord?” Hashep asked. “Could you play it for us?”
When I was much younger, one of our servants taught me to play the lyre. I don’t play like a professional musician—no Roman man of my class would want to—and I don’t dance. As Cicero said, “No man who’s sober will dance.” But I do take pleasure in my lyre from time to time. When these girls were younger, I used to sing to them quite a bit. Hashep has been receiving musical training from one of my servants. I think she can become an entertainer, escaping a life of working in the kitchen, the fate toward which Dakla seems headed.
“I don’t have time to get my lyre and tune it, but I believe I remember the melody. Give me a moment to think.” I began to hum.
When I looked up from the piece of papyrus, Hashep asked, “What mode will you use, my lord?”
“The Dorian. It seems to fit the time of the year.”
By the time I was halfway through the poem, Hashep had joined me, perfectly in tune and meeting my eyes in anticipation of where the melody was going. Toward the end her jealous little sister tried to make it a trio. Phineas winced as we sounded like two skylarks singing along with a crow. Clodius cast his eyes from one to the other of us as though we were all quite mad.
“That was beautiful,” Dakla said. “Can we sing it again?”
I kissed her on the forehead and handed the papyrus back to Phineas. “I have a lot to do, sweetheart, and you girls need to get back to your lessons. You have more important things to read than one of my poems.”
“But that stuff’s all so dull, Uncle Gaius,” Dakla said.
Oh, to have nothing more onerous to worry about than reading dull poetry!
*
Since Martial was coming for dinner, I would have to change into different clothes. Before I did so I sat alone in my room, trying to make some sense of what I had learned over the last two days, and trying to understand why Tacitus had done what he did. His brother might very well be ill, but the timing was certainly opportune for a man looking for an escape, and I felt abandoned, though not in the sense of relief that Livilla’s decision offered me.
Had Tacitus just been looking for an excuse to disconnect himself from me? My friendship with him has made me appreciate a melancholy passage from one of Cicero’s letters to Atticus. “My house is crammed of a morning,” the great orator wrote. “I go down to the Forum surrounded by droves of ‘friends,’ but in all the crowds I cannot find one person with whom I can exchange an unguarded joke or let out a private sigh.”
With Tacitus I had found that one person. And yet we disagreed profoundly on one important matter. Tacitus would welcome Domitian’s death, whatever happened afterwards. I suspected that, in the long run, Rome would be better off if we did not have a king—which is what we have, although no one will use the word. But I could not bring myself to will it. It’s too uncertain a chance.
Getting rid of a king would be difficult, for two reasons. First, we have no system ready to replace him. The Republic would not just reappear, like a magician pulling a lost coin from behind someone’s ear. Other men would try to seize power. Few men of my class were devoted to the notion of a Republic or had the strength of character to forge a new form of government. Most just wanted to grab whatever they could for themselves. If Domitian were killed, there would be a period of turmoil. Only a fool would deny that possibility. The provinces might revolt, as they did when Nero died. During those months of civil war—less than twenty years ago—part of Rome itself was burned.
In the second place, no one could predict who might be harmed in the chaos following the murder of the princeps. When Julius Caesar was assassinated, mobs ran through the streets, looting and burning indiscriminately. My first responsibility was to protect my family. In order to do that, did I have to accept the presence of a princeps who, whatever his faults, keeps order? Is the problem with the system or with the man at the top of the system? Could we prosper under a philosopher-king? Plato thought so, but there has never been a true philosopher-king, at least not that I know of. Sometimes I hate myself for being so cautious, but—
“My lord.” Demetrius’ voice sounded through my closed door.
“Yes. Come in.”
He opened the door. “My lord, Valerius Martial is waiting to see you.”
“Now? He’s too early for dinner. Did he say what he wants?”
“Just that it’s in regard to a favor you asked of him, my lord. And he’s not wearing dinner clothes.”
As I crossed the garden my mother intercepted me. “That dreadful man is standing at the door. You didn’t invite him to dinner again, did you?”
She didn’t know about Livilla! I wished the girl would just tell everyone so I could endure the storm, repair the damage as best I could, and get on to the next problem in my life.
“In fact, I did invite him, Mother, to make up for the way you treated him last time, but I don’t know why he’s arrived so early. Please wait here while I talk to him.”
“Gladly. I don’t want to be under the same roof with him. If he’s eating here tonight, I’ll have dinner in my room.” She gathered up her stola like a woman about to cross a mucky street. “Come, Naomi.”
Having dinner without my mother and Naomi present would actually be a relief. If what Pompeia had said was true, my mother was growing even more resentful of Aurora. I could not bear the thought of having to choose between them.
“Good afternoon, Gaius Pliny,” Martial said as I passed the impluvium, which was full almost to the top from the recent rains.
“Thank you for coming by,” I said. “Do you have a message for me?”
Martial looked around the atrium, where several servants were going about their tasks. “Let’s step outside.”
We closed the door behind us and huddled in the vestibulum. Ironically, this outdoor, public part of a domus can be the most private space in the house. There’s no place for anyone to hide, no opening for them to look through. Noise from the street covers your conversation.
Martial took one look around, just to be sure we were alone. “The meeting you asked for has been arranged, at midday tomorrow. The other party, who is extremely curious, asks that you bring no more than six in your retinue, and he will bring the same number. He agrees to your condition that each of you will have only one attendant in the room during the meeting.”
“That’s acceptable. Thank you.”
“I’m glad to be of service to someone who has been so kind to me and my family.” He turned to leave.
“Aren’t you staying for dinner?”
“I need to get out to the farm and make Lorcis aware of who’s going to be there tomorrow. It’s a long walk.”
“Of course.” I hadn’t really thought of the inconvenience this might cause for Martial. But a man who accepts a gift as substantial as a farm must expect to find himself obliged to the donor. Some clients complain of a “hook” in the gifts given to them. They could, I suppose, refuse to accept them. No gift, no hook. When I give a gift, I don’t think of myself baiting a hook, but in this case I needed Martial’s help, so he would just have to wri
ggle on the end of my line. “If you have no objection, I’ll try to arrive early and say hello to her and Erotion.”
“I’m sure they’ll be pleased to see you.” He bowed his head and took a step toward the street.
“Wait just a moment. Let me give you money to rent a horse.”
His face brightened. “I would be grateful for that.”
I went inside and got a few denarii from Demetrius, more than enough to hire a horse. Scribbling a note and affixing my seal, I gave everything to Martial. “Go to Saturius’ stable, outside the Viminal Gate. That’s where I hire my horses. Show him this note and he’ll give you a decent one at a reasonable price.”
He made a slight bow, not as much as a servant would bow to a master, but enough to acknowledge a kindness. “Again, thank you, Gaius Pliny.”
Watching him start down the Esquiline, I wondered why he had chosen the life he had. A Spaniard by birth, he had received as good an education as mine. With his wit and his impressive speaking style, he could have enjoyed some success in the courts. His parents, both dead now, had left him enough money, according to his own account, to launch a career, if not to sustain it. But he had chosen—or fallen into—the hand-to-mouth existence of a poet, dependent on gifts from patrons like Regulus and me. When he was in Rome, he lived in a run-down insula on the edge of the Subura. As he disappeared around a corner, I reminded myself how fortunate I was not to live a life like his, beholden to people who barely tolerated me.
But then, unlike me, he could live openly with a woman he loved—a former slave—and have a child by her.
* * *
It will be good to see Lorcis again. Our first meeting, in the Forum a few years ago, was purely by chance. Even though Gaius denies coincidences, I can see some in my own life. They’re either that or whimsical decisions of the gods or the Fates, and I’d rather not believe in such things. I don’t like the idea of being tossed around by some power I can’t see or understand.
We met and talked a few times before she escaped slavery. We found some similarities in our lives. Neither of us is Greek or Roman. The people who settled around Carthage—my ancestors—originally came from the same part of the world where Lorcis was born. Both of us were sold into slavery to settle our fathers’ debts—actually a stepfather in her case. Her mother died before she was sold. My mother and I were sold together.
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