Petronius sat at the edge of the bed, staring into the half-full krater. How easy it must be to give a speech and then fall on one’s sword, and yet how often it is botched. His own was, by far, the harder option: to entertain one’s friends, to ensure their happiness and satisfaction throughout the evening in accordance with the sacred duties of hospitality, to see to every detail as if it were an ordinary Saturnalia banquet, and simultaneously to stage-manage one’s own suicide. Had it ever been done before? And should he pull it off, would posterity recognize the astounding feat for what it was? True, it would have been far easier to wait until his guests had retired for the evening before opening his veins, but that would not have been the public death befitting a man of his stature. And, should Nero prove too impatient to wait until morning, and send his cutthroats to interrupt the entertainment, as he’d done to poor Vestinus, the entire effect would be spoiled. But if they should arrive and find the suicide already in progress, they would be more likely to leave him and his guests in peace to see it through with dignity and decorum. Even the emperor and his thugs were able to recognize the public relations value in that.
A cough at the door alerted him to the slaves’ arrival, and Petronius found that he had been slumped over like a drunk, staring at the floor between his knees. He resumed military posture, back straight, chest out, palms on thighs.
“Come,” he said.
The slaves shuffled in and stood in a line by the door. The room was small and dark, but meeting them in here allowed Petronius to keep his voice low, out of earshot of the rest of the household. Several of the slaves stared at the bandage, yet by now they must surely all have known precisely what was going on and why they had been summoned. It was a difficult position for them, Petronius understood—these, his most senior slaves, might reasonably expect to be granted their freedom tonight, the sole shining ambition of their lives achieved, and at the same time would feel obliged to make a show of sorrow at their master’s death. He looked at each in turn. Would any of them actually feel any grief? Petronius found it extremely hard to imagine that, in their position, he should be feeling anything but elation and impatience. He decided to make it brief and to the point; why force them into a dumb show that neither performer nor audience would appreciate? The burdens of freedom and self-reliance would assert themselves soon enough, a whole new wardrobe of sorrows for a new life. He cleared his throat. When he spoke, he was surprised to find his voice piping, his breath forced.
“Each of you is granted his freedom upon my death, which will certainly come before dawn. Until then, you remain on duty. In the strongbox in my study there is a sealed scroll and a purse for each of you. The scroll contains your articles of freedom, the purse your five percent manumission tax. When I am dead, the lawyer Gaius Lucilius will inform each of you in turn of your inheritance. Some receive property, others cash. Please do not importune him in any way until the reading of the will. Now you may return to your work.”
Petronius slid his right hand down his thigh to his knee. One by one, the slaves stepped forward, knelt before him, and kissed his signet ring. They had all shared their moments of ostensible intimacy with him, exchanges in which an outside observer might be uncertain about the nature of the relationship that bound them, but master and slave understood that no exchange of improper intimacies was required here. Even Vellia, who had served in his father’s pantry and known Petronius since the day he was born, as she struggled to her knees offered nothing more personal than a fleeting, kindly smile and a kiss prolonged and emphasized just briefly beyond the strictly formal. Only when it came to the turn of the scribe Demetrius, who made his obeisance with water on his eyes, did Petronius fear that the decorum of the moment was in danger of being compromised. Perhaps this was only natural. Demetrius had, after all, been privy to Petronius’s most private thoughts. Demetrius might be justified in believing that his master was a man, with all a man’s feelings and regrets, who might be worth a moment’s mourning. Despite himself, Petronius was touched. He leaned forward to whisper into the slave’s ear as he kissed his ring.
“Did you have something you wanted to say to me, Demetrius?”
But as Demetrius pulled back and rose to his feet, Petronius saw only fear in his pale green eyes. It was the fear of a man who has crossed an ancient, swaying footbridge over a yawning chasm, only to stumble on the final step. The slave had misunderstood the question, taking it as the prelude to a rebuke that might somehow jeopardize his manumission and inheritance. Petronius saw that, had Demetrius been feeling even the least portion of compassion, such a misunderstanding would have been impossible. There was never any danger that Petronius would be mourned by the freedman Demetrius.
“Never mind, never mind,” Petronius muttered, immediately turning toward the approaching Lucullo in order to give Demetrius a chance to slip away, no doubt to his great relief.
A minute later, Petronius found himself alone again. It was time to return to the dinner. It was not his way to play absentee host, and they would be wondering what had become of him. First, he needed to assess his physical condition before standing. His wrist was throbbing, but certainly no worse than the myriad minor wounds he had sustained in battle over the years. His left hand was slightly numb from the pressure of the dressing, but that would have to be tolerated. His mouth was dry and his head ached; that could soon be remedied with a glass of wine sweetened with honey. There seemed to be plenty of strength left in his limbs, enough at any rate to return under his own power to the terrace and his guests. He suspected that, once he’d found his place on the dining couch, he’d be fully capable of assuming all his functions with his customary vigor and charm. He stood slowly, found that he was not as light-headed as he’d feared, and doused the lamp.
He paused a moment at the top of the steps leading down to the terrace. The dining couch faced away from the house and toward the sea; the guests were unaware of his presence behind them. Gentle tides of quiet, sophisticated conversation and muted laughter lapped up against the steps, interrupted here and there by an eruption of hilarity. Slaves were clearing away the first course of light dishes in preparation for the meat course, setting replenished dishes of relish and white bread afloat on the water table, trimming lamp wicks, and wiping clean the basin’s edge with sprigs of green mint. At this distance, there was no distinguishing the scene from any other small dinner he had given over the course of the years. This was how he had wanted it; in his hastily scrawled invitations, he had explicitly enjoined his guests to behave as if this were an ordinary event, to avoid morbid sentiment and to remain light of heart; above all, no tears or farewells. Confident that these were all people who would take his instructions to heart, he had been concerned only that the atmosphere might be tainted by forced gaiety and hollow mirth, but now he saw that he need not have worried. They were genuinely enjoying themselves, going about the business of being Roman nobles with their customary ease and self-possession. Petronius smiled weakly and told himself that he was well pleased. He descended to join the diners.
There was a brief lull as Petronius took his place at the rear of the dining couch while Commagenus removed his sandals and Nereus poured a flagon of cold water over his hands. Persis stood by with a goblet of honey-sweetened Gaulish retsina strained through a colander of snow; he waited until his master had reclined between Melissa and Anicius before handing it to him. Leaning upon his left elbow, Petronius sought to obscure the sight of the dressing on his wrist, but without a toga it was impossible to hide entirely. He caught several of his friends glancing at it momentarily before looking away, as if it were a shameful infirmity. Melissa subtly rearranged her shawl so that it fell across Petronius’s bandaged arm.
“That’s a lovely tunic you’re wearing, Petronius,” Cornelia said gaily. “And what a delightful color.”
“It’s new on the market in Naples. Baetic wool.”
“From my part of the world,” Martialis said dully.
“I expect everyone
in Baiae and Puteoli will be wearing them soon. You know how they are.”
“Yes, I know,” Petronius said. “But please, don’t let me interrupt the conversation. What were you saying just now when I arrived?”
There was a hesitant, almost guilty pause, as if they were schoolchildren who had been caught in slander, and yet Petronius was quite certain that they had merely been engaged in the usual vapid gossip about politics, writers, or real estate. He popped a dormouse into his mouth and ground its tiny bones between his molars. An unction of warm honey and lightly toasted poppy seeds coated his palate, entirely obliterating whatever little taste the dormouse itself brought to the combination. He had been eating these crunchy little treats his entire life, yet had never been able to fathom their popularity, other than the coarse, visceral pleasure of eating anything fried crispy. He silently vowed never to eat another.
“We were discussing the problem of finding a decent house at a decent price in Baiae,” Anicius Pulcher said sheepishly.
“Ah, yes.”
“No, it’s true,” said Fabius. “There’s nothing to be had on the bay for less than two million anymore. Unless you’re willing to settle for a fisherman’s hut or a tenement brothel.”
“It’s getting so you’ll have to look in Pompeii for something affordable.”
“Without a water view.”
“Or Cumae.”
“God forbid.”
“I’ll ask again,” Petronius broke in. “What do you people have against Cumae? It’s a picturesque, old-fashioned seaside village—the kind everybody claims to be looking for.”
“It is not, Petronius,” Anicius said. “It’s a dark, forbidding, superstitious place, with its tunnels and its sybil and its tumbledown necropolis. You can’t find an oyster in the marketplace for love or money. The stench of sulfur in the air and water makes you think you’ve relocated to the underworld. Plus, with only one road in and one road out, the traffic is always backed up at the gates, especially during the season. Of course, your place is charming, Petronius, so long as one stays on the grounds.”
“And tell me again, Anicius, what it is you love so much about Baiae? Is it the drunken beach parties every night? Is it the ridiculously high prices fetched in the market for all your imported delicacies? Is it the crush of yachts so thick you can barely reach your mooring? Is it the unholy groveling before the season’s celebrity caterer? Or is it the fact that, with prices so high, none of the locals can afford to live there, so the cost of services is double what it is anywhere else in Campania?”
“I’ll tell you what it is, Petronius. It’s the light. There’s something special and unique about the light on the bay. It’s like nowhere else in the world.”
Petronius eyed the older man warily. In his prime, as a voice of conscience in the senate, Anicius would never have allowed himself to recycle such a dismal platitude. Had it really become such an effort for him to engage his mind, so that he found himself constantly having to borrow from the trash heap of clichés, like a perpetual guest who must rely on his hosts for a change of clothes? Petronius could not believe that Anicius was content simply to be the harmless, amiable old pederast, that he had given up the struggle altogether. He loved him still, of course, but it was painful to watch. Even in old age, even on the very brink of death, a man ought to be able to recognize himself in the broad light of day. If he could not, how could he possibly hope to find his way in the dark?
Petronius’s musing was interrupted by the arrival of a phalanx of slaves, who swarmed the terrace bearing platters of meat and clean implements. The Umbrian boar had not yet been carved; it was presented to the master with its belly slashed, plump figs and glistening chestnuts tumbling like viscera from the cavity. Steam rose from its interior, coiled around the ankles of the slaves and condensed on the cool marble ledge of the water table. Lamplight played on the boar’s scorched, lacquered back, got stuck in the beaded amber of its juices, and slid unctuously downward toward the perfumed anus. The moist aroma of roast flesh reached his nostrils. Petronius looked away from his favorite dish and down the beach toward Misenum. The lamps were glowing on every terrace along the coast between his and Vatia’s place, and across the water on the island of Pithecusa. Beyond the promontory too, no doubt, the carcasses of boars and sows and piglets and lambs and songbirds were gleaming on their bronze and silver and gold platters, offering up their laden steam to the sallow, hungry gods in heaven. Petronius’s gaze idled upward to where the crescent moon was now entangled in the melilot woven through the pergola. The sweetened wine had cured his headache, he noticed, but his head now felt as empty as a drum, and he had a fleeting vision of it as it might be twelve hours hence, roasted and stuffed with Chian figs and chestnuts. When he lowered his gaze, he found himself staring at a platter of sausages, delicately selected and arranged by Melissa Silia, who reclined beside him with an expectant smile.
“You must eat,” she whispered.
“I seem to have lost my appetite,” Petronius said dully.
“Please try.” She held a dainty white Faliscan sausage to his lips, and Petronius noticed for the first time that her nails were painted a pale shade of lilac, and that she had perfumed her hands with lavender oil. When had she done this? Very suddenly, a great lump of emotion swelled in his throat, and he ducked his head to conceal the tears that had risen to his eyes. That she had taken such pains, such private moments, to make herself beautiful tonight—down to the scent of her hands, which no one but she and he would ever know—seemed to him to be the most moving token of her grace and tact, a secret message that he might so easily have overlooked. He raised his head to accept her offering, and in the fleeting instant that their eyes met, and she registered the tears in his, her own grew moist, and her lip trembled infinitesimally, but her composure did not crack. The sausage tasted like nothing but rancid gristle to him, and he felt each warm globule of warm fat compress and burst repellently against the roof of his mouth, yet he smiled as he forced it down.
“It will do you good,” Melissa said warmly.
“What good could it possibly do me?”
“It pleases me.”
“Are you growing maternal in your old age, Melissa?” he joked, but it was the wrong thing to say. In apology, he brushed her fingertips with his lips and deposited his last tear in the palm of her hand.
He turned to Anicius on his left, who was twisting a section of sow’s vulva between his fists, seeking the right angle of attack. Petronius noticed something he had never noticed before: that Anicius’s scalp, where it was revealed beneath his thinning weave of gray hair, was flaked and peeling, as were the pink inner shells of his ears. “Have you tried the Lucanian?” he asked.
“First things first,” Anicius said, nodding at his hands.
Petronius took in each guest on the couch to his left. None had touched the boar or the sausage. Suddenly, it seemed very important that someone, anyone, should bear witness to the sausage. The sow’s vulva was an easy touch, and Lucullo was justly famous for it, but it was on the deceptive simplicity of the sausage, its emblematic qualities, that the success of the evening rested. Petronius suddenly felt this with an urgency verging on panic. An entire life’s work might be vested in a sausage, rightly seasoned, yet why would no one try the Lucanian? Was there, perhaps, something wrong with it, or had they all agreed to conspire against it, or against him? His head spun with the possibilities. After all, not every plot was a fabrication; this was just the sort of thing Nero and Tigellinus excelled at. He turned to his right, and found himself looking directly into Martialis’s eyes, of precisely the same saturated yellow-green as Petronius’s prized myrrhine ladle. Martialis was studying him calmly, gnawing on a length of Lucanian sausage.
“How is the sausage?” Petronius whispered. Martialis cocked an eyebrow quizzically.
“Why don’t you try some?”
“I think I will.” Without breaking eye contact, Petronius accepted a length of sausage from his guest
and nibbled at it. Suddenly, he found himself panting, sweating, his eyes welling with tears of relief.
“Too much cumin,” he laughed.
Martialis leaned forward until their foreheads were almost touching, and Petronius could see every hair follicle on his cheek. “Never complain, never explain,” he said, and the world resolved itself into its old, familiar configuration.
“A poem, I think,” Melissa said, clapping her hands com-mandingly. “Who will give us one?”
Fabius leapt to his feet. “Fetch me a harp!”
“Best leave off the harp, Fabius,” Pollia suggested gently. “And the singing.”
“No harp, then. Here we go.” He recited in Greek, in an accent that would have been the delight of his boyhood tutor but made him a laughingstock in the streets of Nicomedia.
But when the artichoke flowers, and the chirping grasshopper sits in a tree and pours down his shrill song continually from under his wings in the season of wearisome heat, then goats are plumpest and wine sweetest; women are most wanton, but men are feeblest, because Sirius parches head and knees and the skin is dry through heat. But at that time let me have a shady rock and wine of Biblis, a clot of curds and milk of drained goats with the flesh of an heifer fed in the woods, that has never calved, and of firstling kids; then also let me drink bright wine, sitting in the shade, when my heart is satisfied with food, and so, turning my head to face the fresh Zephyr, from the overflowing spring which pours down unfouled thrice pour an offering of water, but make a fourth libation of wine.
The Uncertain Hour Page 7