It was a statue, of course, rising on a pedestal in the midst of a riot of plant life, a rus in urbe, a tiny wilderness dropped into the center of the city. Great blots of reddish thyme clung to the marble, enwrapping the figure’s feet and ankles and threatening its shins. Grapevines strangled the columns and rafters of the peristyle that surrounded the garden on all four sides. Utter silence reigned, despite the wind rising without.
At the center, the life-size statue, a boy or young man, stood on a plain cube of marble, facing the atrium. It was what the Greeks called a kouros, a work from the dark centuries, the very last thing one expected to find in the private home of a respectable gentleman with middlebrow tastes. It was archaic in every sense, more Egyptian than Greek, with its stiff legs, its long symmetrical braids, fists loosely clenched at its sides, its stylized musculature, the ineffable, vaguely ironic curve of its eyebrows and curl of its lips. Even Petronius, with his limited repertoire, could plainly see that it represented an idea—the ideal of physical and moral beauty, united by nobility—rather than an individual. It was beautiful, to be sure, but disturbing, like a prayer or incantation uttered in a dead language. How such a piece could possibly have found its way to this house from the ancient temple or graveyard for which it had originally been intended was anybody’s guess.
And yet, as he slowly circled it, Petronius found himself unexpectedly moved. The boy was talking to him, telling Petronius that the two of them had something in common; the boy was challenging Petronius to guess what it might be. Between the kouros’s era and his, a golden age had come and passed away, its glories forever faded, yet Petronius was the same as him: nothing had changed but the awareness of a hope irredeemably squandered. Now he saw the irony in the boy’s expression resolve itself into mockery, just as a man is mocked by the memory of himself in his youth, when all of nature and society seemed to be an exudation of his own mind. Petronius saw that the boy was both himself as he had been in his own prime, exulting in his ignorance and infatuation with abstraction, and as he was now, a corpse pickled in its own brine and entombed in a distant land, an oblivion so complete that even his native tongue was no longer familiar to him. As unlikely as it might seem, Petronius felt something break painfully within him as he stood before that coldhearted boy and passively endured his withering scorn.
“Does he speak to you, too?” came a woman’s voice from the shadows of the peristyle.
PETRONIUS OPENED HIS eyes. Eight years later, looming over the bath, the kouros no longer spoke to him. He sighed in dismay. There was nothing for him in the hot water today, and where he waited to be wrapped in serenity he instead felt charged with enervating restlessness and anxiety, and consequently immensely exasperated with himself. He was fully aware of how fortunate he was—how few others in his position had been afforded the luxury of making plans, putting their affairs in order, making their peace—but this awareness gave him no satisfaction or rest. It was all wrong. Why were his feelings not lining up as he had trained them to do, like dutiful soldiers, snapping to attention at his command? This disquiet—it was not the Roman way, not the patrician way. Had the others gone like this, in disgraceful jitters, merely feigning their dignity and resolve? Had all their training failed them, too, at the last moment? Perhaps they had pulled it off somehow, reaching into a still inner core that seemed to be eluding him. Perhaps the problem was having too much time to prepare, rather than too little. Petronius ground his teeth in self-disgust. He had no fear of losing his composure, but he had always assumed—far too complacently, as it turned out—that, this moment come, everything would be perfect, including and especially the state of his soul. What else could possibly matter?
Petronius climbed from the bath and passed into the next chamber. Without pause, he leaped into the plunge pool, immersing himself entirely in the icy water. He opened his eyes. A spike of sunlight from the small window near the ceiling quivered before him, and he reached out for it. The light splashed onto his hands, and he cupped them as if he would drink it. This is the way, he thought to himself—you cannot drink it and you cannot hold it, but you can grasp it. If your hands and your tongue are frustrated, seek the sense that is equipped to grasp it, and you will be gratified. You are trying too hard—you know how to do this, you have trained for this your entire life, but your anger and your doubt are making you forget. It is the cold water, not the hot, that cleanses and dissolves the impurities. By the time he emerged to the surface, Petronius was laughing with pleasure at himself. But after only a few minutes of splashing and rubbing at his limbs, the skin gone taut and goose-pimpled, his mood had reasserted itself.
“What a load of crap,” he muttered to himself as he padded into the massage room.
Surisca was waiting by the table, naked but for a cotton shawl wrapped around her legs and tied at the hip. Her hair had been elaborately braided and twisted into a bun at the nape, fastened with the silver brooch Petronius had given her at last year’s Saturnalia. It was a fine bit of native craftsmanship, not made for a slave, but when his brother had sent it from Britain, Petronius had seen that it was not to Melissa’s taste and had not even shown it to her. How Surisca had blushed when he’d presented it to her! Perhaps she had a boyfriend in town to impress, or make jealous.
“All ready for the holiday, I see,” Petronius said, just to see that blush again. Surisca obliged, ducking her head as she warmed a dash of oil between her palms. Petronius took his place on the table, lying on his stomach with his arms at his side. Surisca began scraping his back.
The worst thing he could do, of course, was think this way: this is my last bath; this is my last massage; this is my last sunset; this is my last whatever. Hadn’t he had more than his share of all these things, and been blessed with the ability never to take any pleasure for granted? It was gratitude he should be feeling; satiety, not regret; anticipation, not trepidation. Well, who in their right mind wants to die? That was beside the point—it was not a matter of whether, but of how. He believed as he had been taught, that all unhappiness is the product of unnatural desire; that all fear is ultimately the fear of death; that the banishment of desire should, in principle, vanquish the fear of death. What was it Epicurus had said? “Life has no terrors for him who has thoroughly understood that there are no terrors for him in ceasing to live.” Petronius knew this in his heart to be true; he understood it. He was not afraid to die, yet here he was, clinging to the world as a ship clings to shore at an approaching storm, anchored in place by desire. It was not right. It was not proper. His thoughts should not be clouded at this moment.
Surisca was massaging his shoulders, her soft, brown belly so close to his face he could see the lovely down around her navel. Her hands were soft, too, like a child’s. How long would they stay so, after she’d lost her privileged position?
“Surisca,” Petronius said. “What would you do if you were free?”
Her hands stopped momentarily, then continued to work.
“I don’t know,” she said after a while. A thrush flew in through the open door and perched on the windowsill. Then it swooped down and disappeared into the bathing rooms. It would surely break its neck trying to get out again.
“Would you go home?”
“My home was destroyed, and all my family is dead or sold.”
“Oh? I thought you were from Tyre.”
“I was raised in Tyre, but my people are from the Syrian desert. My village was burned by the Parthians.”
She went on with her work in silence, moving down his body to his lower back, buttocks, and thighs. She stopped to drizzle more oil into her hands, then reached between Petronius’s legs.
“How old are you, Surisca? Seventeen?”
“I think I’m fifteen, sir.”
“You’re very young. Surely there is something you would like to do?”
“I’m happy to serve you, Master. Will you roll over now?”
“But if you were free?”
She gave the matter some thoug
ht as she continued to administer to him. Her eyes were closed as her hands worked mechanically. She had kohl on her lower eyelids. Her thoughts, like his, were elsewhere. When she spoke, her voice was that of a thoughtless child caught up in a daydream.
“I suppose I would go to Rome and marry a baker.” She giggled charmingly.
“You haven’t been to Rome. It’s noisy, smelly, dangerous. You’d live in a tiny room in a tumbledown tenement in a treacherous neighborhood. You’d pay an exorbitant rent and be kept up all night by the rattling carts. You’d better stay here.”
“Still, I would. There’s nothing in Cumae.”
“Why a baker?”
“I have a friend who’s a baker. He does well.”
“And will he go to Rome?”
Surisca sighed impatiently. “This isn’t working. Should I put it in my mouth?”
Petronius raised his head and looked down the length of his body. He had barely been aware of her hands on his penis, which was limp and shriveled like an old man’s. That was a shame. He doubted that he would be in any condition that evening to make love with Melissa, which meant that this sad little interlude would probably be his last chance to take his pleasure with a woman, even though she was only his slave. He would like to feel it one last time, and Surisca certainly knew how he liked it, but ultimately what did it matter? Again, he felt himself overcome by weariness and uncertainty.
“Leave it,” he said. “It’s not important.” Surisca immediately turned away to rinse her hands in the basin by the door. Petronius followed her with his eyes, his gaze lingering on the movements of her small buttocks through her shawl. When she stepped into the doorway and made her courtesy, the sunlight silhouetted her thighs. Petronius felt a lump of startling sadness rise in his throat and salty tears sting his eyes. This would not do at all, at all.
Petronius lay on his back for a while. He could hear the thrush, panicking in the next room. It would flutter and bang against the ceiling, and every minute or so pause to rest on an exposed rafter. Then it would resume its attempts to escape, always in the same way, never learning from its mistakes. And it would certainly die. That was his life now, panicking and desperate and doomed. It was banging against his ribcage, trying to get away to safety. But a man’s life is not a wild beast; it is his property, a domesticated animal, and it ought to respond to its master’s command. If he bids it to lie down quietly and await the sacrificial knife, it ought to do so obediently, with humility and trust. If a dog refuses to obey, whose is the fault? Why, the master’s, of course, who has trained it inadequately. A man who cannot master his own dog can hardly be expected to master himself. Well, well, it was too late for a refresher course now—if he had to drag his own life kicking and snarling to the altar, so be it. There was nothing dignified in it, alas, nothing praiseworthy; but it would submit in the end, he would see to that.
There came a sharp crack, followed by a muffled thud, from the next room. The bird had found the window. Petronius sat up, eased himself off the table and returned to the bedroom, where a fresh tunic and his steward were waiting for him.
“Help me on with this, will you, Commagenus?”
Petronius grabbed the garment from the bed, then gave it a second look. “What is this yellow?”
“Baetic wool, sir. From Spain. Lilia found it in the market in Naples.”
“It’s very soft, isn’t it?” Petronius held the tunic out for Commagenus, who gave it a brief appreciative rub between his thumbs before slipping it over his master’s head. Petronius slid his feet into the sandals and the steward knelt to fasten them.
“Should Lilia put out your toga for this evening, sir?”
“No, I won’t wear the toga tonight. This will do.”
Petronius led the way through the curtained doorway into the adjoining dining room, designed with only two couches for intimate dinners, but rarely used. At the far end, a pair of doors gave onto the colonnade, facing the main house. Commagenus followed two steps behind Petronius. Here in the shade there was a slight chill, though the sunlight was still bright upon the orchard and the sea. Petronius stopped by a small altar to Apollo the Healer.
“What do you think? Will we be able to eat outdoors tonight?”
Commagenus stuck his nose in the air, like a hunting dog, and sniffed. “If the wind doesn’t pick up, I should think. I’ll have braziers set up by the dining couch, and some extra blankets handy.”
“Do that.” Petronius moved on. “Listen, Commagenus. I’ll need the entire household on hand tonight. Tell everyone to stay put until you’ve heard from me.”
“Tonight, sir? May I remind you, the festival …”
“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll release them all in good time, don’t worry.”
“Which companies, sir?”
“Every company.”
“The field hands?”
“Every company. Send someone to the vineyards for Marsius and his boys. I want them all here tonight. Vellia can send them some bread and onions if they’ve missed their dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, will you tell Vellia I’ll be down to see her in a few minutes?”
“Yes, sir.”
Petronius watched him hustle off along the colonnade. Then, glancing down, his eye was caught by the small golden Apollo at his feet, standing in a niche set into the half-wall. Petronius considered the god’s bland, well-fed face, his elegantly pleated robe, his glimmering lyre. He was a local god, with his ancient oracle in a cove just over the hill, but neither he nor his Sibyl had ever been of the least assistance to Petronius. Suddenly, Petronius found himself flushed with anger. He strode into the bathhouse, found the dead thrush, and returned to throw it contemptuously at the idol’s feet.
“There’s your sacrifice,” he muttered. “Heal that, you Greek pansy.” He continued on toward the main house.
He had not gone ten strides when he saw Melissa emerge from the library, tall and straight as a statue of Athena. She wore a plain, sleeveless gown of undyed grayish wool, and her hair, the color of ripe flax, was gathered in a single long braid at the back, like a German’s. She had not yet seen him, though plainly she was looking for him and he was directly in front of her. She seemed distracted, a little distraught, and she hugged her shoulders as if she were chilled. Petronius stood and watched her. He thought that, perhaps, if she turned away without catching sight of him, he would not call her back. Distraction did not become her, it revealed her age and made her seem fragile, which she was not. He could not bear to look at her. With dark shadows pooling beneath her high cheekbones and at the corners of her lips, she made him think of the tragic Niobe at the moment when she first notices that her children are missing.
But then she saw him, her eyes as gray and clean as pebbles on a beach, and he was overcome with remorse so that his own eyes grew wet when she smiled at him. And yet neither of them moved, and they stood like fools who are compelled to wade through their own ignorance at each new encounter. That felt especially true now, today, when, with the hours closing in, he had yet to find a way to unburden himself to her. Perhaps that was yet another duty in which he would prove himself derelict. The longer they stood, the greater the distance seemed to grow between them, until it might almost have been easier for each to go his own separate way. The smile wilted and died on Melissa’s lips, then her breath caught and she brought one hand up to cover her mouth, as if she had seen something horrible rise up behind him, or had looked into his secret soul. Petronius felt as if he might never move from that place, but Melissa, ever the perfect Roman matron, instantly mastered herself and came to him, arms outstretched as if in reconciliation. Petronius envied her composure; in some ways, of course, her situation was far more difficult than his.
She took his hands in hers, and even at arm’s length he could smell the strong, oniony scent of another man’s sweat on her.
He pulled her to him and she rested her face on his chest.
“I’ve been to see th
e captain of the guard,” she said with unrehearsed detachment. Her hair smelled of iris; stray wisps of gray stood out at the temple, like cat’s whiskers.
“Yes?”
“He’s agreed to everything we’ve asked. Titus, I …”
“That’s good. Then we’ll get on with the preparations.”
There was a silence, during which Petronius was again acutely, almost painfully sensitive to the world around him. The lengthening shadows stood out like knife blades on the path. He felt he could count every strand of hair on Melissa’s head, every clattering stone on the beach below. Every point of contact between his body and Melissa’s felt bruised and hot.
“It seems he served with you in Bithynia. He vouched for your honor.”
“A centurion vouched for my honor? What was his name?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something or other.”
“And?”
“And? Your guests will be permitted to come and go as they please. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Of course.”
“There will be pickets posted at the gate, at the front door, and on the beach.”
“I’ll have something sent out to them. It will be a long night.”
“How thoughtful of you, Titus. I’ll have my bath now.”
“Thank you, Melissa Silia. For all this.” Petronius kissed the top of her head and they parted, neither looking back.
It was strange, Petronius thought, that she had not more to say to him, nor he to her, on this of all days. Of course, he knew what she had done to win the centurion’s cooperation, and it was only natural that the less they had to say about that, the better. Still, until she had arrived from Rome the previous week, bearing the news of his imminent arrest, they had not seen one another in six weeks, and even that visit had been overshadowed with foreboding and melancholy. Now, here at last was the golden opportunity, the moment of necessity for the two of them, and neither seemed inclined to broach the subject, or capable of doing so. When they’d first met in Prusa and become lovers—was it really only eight years ago?—she’d been disarm-ingly, even aggressively, direct; if she were cautious and circumspect now, he had only himself to blame. In a moment of despair and self-loathing, he had abandoned her without excuse or explanation—though an explanation had hardly been necessary. He had left her to sink or swim in the shark-infested waters of the imperial court, and she had acquitted herself admirably, against all odds. Now it was Petronius who was drowning, and she had come to him without summons, of her own free will, not only to warn him of the peril he faced, but to tend to him in his hour of need. Perhaps she imagined there was nothing left to say, but even at his most skeptical Petronius knew this to be wishful thinking. First of all, there is always more to say, to feel, to be confounded by. And then, even in the unlikely event that she had nothing more to say to him, she must feel that he had been groping toward a meaningful exchange of some kind, and she had offered him none of the encouragement she knew he would need. She had helped him put his affairs in order efficiently and affectionately; she had shared his bed; she had placed herself in some danger by consorting with him at this critical moment; she had submitted to a distasteful bargain to ensure the success of tonight’s dinner; but she had yet to come to him and say: “Titus, if you have anything you need to tell me, now is the time to do it.” And until she did, he could not. He could not.
The Uncertain Hour Page 2