The Uncertain Hour

by Jesse Browner

  She had already started for the bathhouse, and when she turned at his call and the hem of her tunic rose and rippled, it seemed to Petronius for one moment as if the cares of the years had fallen away, and that she was again as she had once been. But he saw at once that she had dropped her shoulders and allowed a kind of vapid languor to invade her gaze. She was the kind of person who yawned when she was afraid and stared with limpid intensity into the eyes of those who bored her most. To see her like this, sorely provoked by the day’s unpleasant necessities, yet so serenely composed, with one hand on her hip like a waitress at a roadside tavern, was dazzling. He found himself staring at her in mute perplexity and desire.

  “What is it you wanted to tell me, Titus?”

  “I … nothing. I … it’s difficult.”

  She cocked her head to one side, like a songbird, and smiled sympathetically, her eyes half-closed as if she would fall asleep right there on the path.

  “I know it is,” she said gently. “But you must bear up. It’s almost over now.”

  Petronius watched her turn and disappear into the bathhouse. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, the only person he had ever wanted, and he had lost her as casually as one loses a ring removed before a swim and thoughtlessly knocked away. The important question was not why she had returned at the final hour to allow him one last chance to redeem himself, but why, after a week in her company, he had failed to do so. It was unlike her to allow him to idle in error for so long. What was she thinking?

  He shook himself like a wet dog. He was thoroughly fed up with all this emotional turbulence and determined to be businesslike and efficient with the rest of his time until dinner, of which there was precious little left. True, it was not what he would have wished—dignity, pride, and Socratic condescension were more in order for a day like this—but it was what he was stuck with until he could find his balance and equanimity. Perhaps he would feel more himself when the guests arrived—after all, had he not been reared from birth and lived his entire life as a public man, a leader of men and patrician exemplar? Was it not natural for men like him to feel out of sorts in their own company? It was all the solitude of the past two years, all the introspection and writing, that had softened him.

  He stretched his legs and strode purposefully into the house—through the library and the front atrium, past the interior fountain and pool, the mural of the seafront on the Bay of Naples, and down a long, narrow hallway to the service wing. He ducked his head to clear the low lintel of the main kitchen, and the dozen or so slaves ceased their chatter and stood to attention. Only Vellia, cracking urchins in a basket, saw fit to ignore him.

  The vast oak table that occupied the center of the room was laden with goods recently arrived from the market—in fact, a cart was being unloaded just now in the rear courtyard—and Petronius contented himself with a stroll around its periphery while he waited for his housekeeper to finish her task. With a lazy flick of his hand, he ordered the slaves back to their work, which they resumed in silence, heads bowed.

  On the near end of the table stood an assortment of large red earthenware bowls, filled with shellfish on ice—Lucrine oysters, mussels, cockles, Misenum urchins. They smelled strongly of the sea, whence they had been plucked only that morning, and when later they were opened and eaten, with perhaps just a dash of vinegar and olive oil, no more mystical communion could be hoped for with the depths and its creatures and the invisible roads that bind the empire to its own heart. The largest of the bowls, the size of a cartwheel, was filled with brine and held an enormous mottled lamprey, still very much alive. Beside it, a glistening sturgeon lay on a rush mat, its eye glassy and unclouded, alongside a smaller red mullet and a basketful of prawns. There were a number of open jars containing pickled Picene olives, olive relish dappled with coriander seeds, Sicilian honeycomb, Pontic pine kernels toasted oily and tan, Judaean pistachios shelled and roasted and pink as babies’ toes. Beyond these, another mat was spread with a selection of the finest Italian cheeses. Among them, Petronius recognized a finely aged Luna from Etruria, stamped with a crescent moon; an oil-soaked Ves-tine from the Sabine hill country, wrapped in grape leaves yet still reeking of goat; and a divine, creamy Trebula, a local product worthy of the worship it inspired. But there were no beestings, he noted with disappointment. There were piles of fruit—Scythian sorb apples, golden Chian figs, Syrian damsons, and lumpy citrons from Medea—and of flat discs of fresh white bread. A slave was plucking little birds—guinea fowl? beccaficos?—and laying their naked, roseate pink carcasses in a neat line at the far end. Petronius grabbed an open urchin from Vellia’s basket and a disc of bread, with which he absent-mindedly scooped the pungent roe from the shell as he pursued his tour of inspection.

  Lucullo emerged from the oven room, his great fat face purple, dripping and beaming with pleasure. His tunic was filthy, bloodstained and spangled with translucent fish scales.

  “Today’s your day, Master,” he said in his heavy, spit-flecked Sicilian accent. He wiped his sweaty palms down the length of his tunic and offered a perfunctory bow. “I’ve just got the boar in the oven.”

  “Umbrian?”

  “You can smell the acorns in its flesh. I’ve stuffed it with Ebuso figs and chestnuts. We’ll have the sweetbreads and black pudding grilled, with mulsum sauce.”

  “Excellent.” Petronius felt his spirits lifting. “What’s this?”

  “That’ll be your Lucanian sausage.”

  Petronius dipped his hand into the bowl and pinched off a sample of the raw mixture. “Not enough cumin, Lucullo.”

  The chef frowned. “The flavor strengthens with cooking.”

  “Still, not enough.”

  “You’re wrong, Master, but I’ll do it.”

  “What next?” The men stood side by side, Petronius a full head taller, and surveyed the room.

  “Let’s see.” The chef rubbed his cheeks. “Besides the raw shellfish, you’ll have roast sturgeon and mullet with pepper sauce, Baian casserole—Vellia found a bottle of brine imported from Byzantium, what a marvel—fried lamprey with vinegar sauce.”

  “Cost a small fortune, that lamprey,” Vellia called out grudgingly from across the room, without looking up from her urchins. “Market’s a madhouse, with the holidays. Emperor’s in town, along with half of Rome. Not the good half.”

  “Put the sauce on the side. I like mine plain.”

  “I know. Then we’ll have peahen stuffed with truffles and chestnuts …”

  “That peahen was even more than the lamprey.”

  “Yes, all right, Vellia. By the way, where are the beestings I asked for?”

  “Can’t get beestings in December, Master, not even in Baiae. Woodcock from Phrygia, oh yes. Tunny from Chalcedon, why not? Black truffles from Aquitania, certainly. But no beestings.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “As I was saying, you have your stuffed peahen, some nice plump figpeckers in peppered egg yolk and Corycian saffron, turtle rumps, dormice in honey and poppy seeds, sow’s vulva …”

  “Honestly, Lucullo, you know I can’t stand it.”

  “Yes, but your guests can’t do without it, can they? Not the way I make it. Why else do you suppose they come? And we have fresh apricots and peaches for dessert, believe it or not, along with madam’s favorite saffron honey cakes. Yes, and cheese and nuts and lupines and olives. And bread.”

  “Will it be enough?”

  Lucullo squinted. “For nine? I dare say it’ll do.”

  “And we’re feeding the vineyard company tonight, in honor of the festival.”

  “The whole company?” Vellia looked up from her urchins for the first time, a frown of annoyance creasing her shrunken, leathery face. “Whatever should I feed ‘em with?”

  “You’ve got onions in the cellar, don’t you? Just put on some extra loaves.”

  “Perfectly good onions,” Vellia muttered, returning to her work.

  Hermes, the herald slave, stuck his head throu
gh the kitchen door. Seeing Petronius, he stood to attention in his immaculate white tunic and made a low, formal obeisance.

  “Marcus Valerius Martialis, sir.”

  “So soon? Very well, have him meet me in the library.”

  Hermes vanished, and Petronius turned back to Lucullo, who was shuffling his feet and sucking his fingernails, clearly anxious to be back at work.

  “Lucullo, you’ve done yourself proud. I’d hug you if you weren’t such a revolting specimen.”

  “Careful what you wish for. Saturnalia begins at midnight, and I’ll be in my bath by eleven. Back to work.” The chef waddled off into the larder. Petronius crossed the room and crouched down beside the housekeeper, whispering in her ear.

  “Those guards by the gate, Vellia. You’ve seen them?”

  “Yes, sir. The whole household’s seen ‘em.”

  “You’re to feed them well tonight, you hear? Send them out whatever we don’t finish. Plenty of wine, too. Not the Falern-ian; the Massic will do, but lots of it.”

  “Yes, sir. If I might … What are they doing here? Is the emperor dining with us tonight?”

  “No, nothing like that. The fact is, Vellia, I’m under arrest.”

  “I see.”

  Petronius stood, hesitated a moment as if he might say something else, looked about the room, and left.

  He found Martialis in the library, hunched over a game board of robbers and soldiers, a crystal cattle train in his hand, his wild black hair in his eyes. Incredibly, he was wearing a toga, of reddish Canusium wool, but it had been draped so inexpertly—stray lengths wrapped around the neck, lumps and folds in all the wrong places, both arms bare—that its effect was perfectly comical, like that of a mime on the stage. His shoes were spattered with mud and his cheeks streaked with some sort of scarlet paste.

  “You look pathetic,” Petronius said from the doorway.

  Martialis looked up from the board and broke into a great yellow-toothed grin. “Good thing I wore it,” he said, rising to his feet to clasp Petronius by the forearms. “Am I dining with the Great Artist tonight?”

  “No. Did you walk all the way from Baiae?”

  “I did, and I’m famished. I’ve been fucking all day. I found a fantastic tart down by the docks. She’s got this great trick. She takes a stick of charcoal, see, and draws a ring around your cock, right down near the base. Then she puts on this bright red lipstick, and she says ‘If I don’t beat that mark, your blowjob’s free.’ And sure enough, when she’s done, there’s a red ring below the black one. It’s fantastic. She could make a fortune in Rome.”

  “You stink, Marcus, you really do,” Petronius said, pushing him toward the door. “Why don’t you take that thing off and have a bath? The others will be here soon.”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Can I have a snack first?”

  “Go to the kitchen. Vellia will fix you up with something. I’ll meet you in the baths.”

  Petronius sat on a bench while Martialis bathed, gnawing at a stump of bread. Petronius never ceased to marvel at the man’s body—small yet somehow lanky, underfed yet somehow knotty with strength, and, only in his midtwenties, he was covered in twists of black hair from his neck to his toes. Petronius had never been to Spain, but he was told they were all like that—the young Lucan certainly had been, and not much older than Martialis. And they all seemed to have yellow teeth, too; it was no wonder that Spaniards were commonly believed to brush their teeth with their own urine. Petronius remembered the first time he had met Martialis, at a dinner that Lucan had thrown to welcome the boy to Rome and introduce him to society. Martialis was in need of a patron, some wealthy nitwit with literary pretensions looking for a brilliant, unsung poet to sponsor. Petronius had been making civil conversation with just such a prospect, a pompous old senator named Frugi, when Lucan had stepped in, Martialis in tow. Formal bows were exchanged all around, and Petronius had instantly sensed that the young Spaniard, freshly shaved and immaculate in a gleaming new toga, was ill at ease. (Petronius was later to learn that Martialis was always uncomfortable if he felt himself to be too clean, overdressed, or in polite company.) Almost immediately after the introductions, Frugi had turned to Martialis and asked him in all earnest whether it was true that Spaniards cleaned their teeth with their own urine. Martialis had fixed him with a gaze of infinite thoughtfulness, and paused before delivering his considered response in a tone of catholic benevolence. “Most of us do, senator,” he’d said. “But I drink too much, and it makes my piss acidic, so I always try to use someone else’s when I can.” The senator had declined to sponsor him, but Petronius had taken an instant liking to him. He had set him up in a room at the Pear Tree Inn, provided him with a nominal salary, some hand-me-downs, and free meals whenever he saw fit to drop in on the Esquiline. That had been two years ago. They’d ended up in a most unconventional patron—client relationship, as Mar-tialis had proven woefully inept at fawning, running confidential errands, and keeping appointments, while Petronius had left Rome under a shadow shortly after they’d met and was subsequently in no position to promote Martialis’s social and literary careers. Instead, they’d done something very untoward—they’d become fast friends. They were as opposite as they could possibly be; sometimes, having taken the boy under his wing, Petronius felt as if he had adopted a very intelligent, very naughty monkey, not fully domesticated. And yet they loved one another, amused each other, argued bitterly about grammar, vintages, and Euripides. Martialis had spent a lot of time in Cumae—the gutters and whorehouses of nearby Puteoli were just filthy enough to suit him. Petronius could only be grateful that Martialis was not his real son, for if he had raised him from a child, he would have ruined him. For sure, he would have broken something inside him that seemed to be broken in most men he knew, but not in Martialis. He looked down fondly upon the boy in the bath. Petronius could not imagine how he was going to break the news to him. Clearly, Martialis suspected nothing as yet.

  “It’s a good thing you invited me tonight,” he was saying, spraying half-chewed crumbs over the surface of the bathwater. “I don’t have two coppers to rub together. Baiae is so damned expensive these days, you have to sell your soul for a taste of cheap sausage. I’d have had to go to Mucius’s for my supper, but I’d almost rather starve than have to listen to any more of his so-called poetry. It’s the only reason he entertains, you know, to corral an audience. And he serves the worst rotgut from Ravenna.” He held his breath and dunked his head, reemerging with his face plastered with hair to the chin.

  “You spend all your money on whores, it’s no wonder you’ve got nothing to eat.”

  “That’s the beauty of it. Chrestina didn’t cost me a penny. I told her I’d act as her agent in Rome, introduce her to all the right people, and she did me for free.”

  “All the right people are right there under her nose in Baiae.”

  “Yes, but she’s got a pimp in Baiae. And besides, Baiae’s too small for someone like her. She’s an artist, she needs a larger canvas to work on.”

  “But you don’t know any of the right people in Rome. And look at you, Marcus. How did you ever convince her?”

  Martialis stood and looked about for a towel. “I am a poet, Petronius, did you forget? A witty epigram, a seductive turn of phrase—it’s always worth something in the marketplace, if you know how to sell it. Tomorrow, my verses will buy me fame, wealth, immortal glory. Today, they buy me pussy. As Catullus always said, ‘the pot finds its own herbs.’ Oh, hello.”

  Surisca stood in the doorway, towels in hand. She wore a full-length robe and the blank expression that she reserved for naked houseguests. This was hardly the first time she had attended to Martialis in the baths, and even Martialis knew better than to take advantage of a man’s slaves in his own home, but he stood there, hands on hips, as unabashed, and with the same pretensions to irresistibility, as the swan before Leda.

  “I prefer freeborn women to freedwomen, and freedwomen to slaves, but to me a slave as b
eautiful as Surisca is always a free woman,” he purred.

  Surisca placed the towels on a chair and began to back out of the room.

  “Will you bring our guest a clean tunic and some nard for his hair?” Petronius called to her.