The Uncertain Hour

by Jesse Browner

  “It’s the least we could do, seeing as they’re missing out on the festivities.”

  “Soldier’s life. Still, I’ve pulled the pickets off the beach. Saw no need to make them suffer in the wind.”

  “You’re getting soft in your old age, Gnipho.”

  “As you say, General. I’ll be getting back to my post, if you have no further use for me here.”

  “I’m happy to see you’ve done well for yourself. Good luck for the future. Dismissed.”

  The centurion offered a regulation salute to his commander and a half bow to the general company, and slipped away through the orchard. Petronius watched him fade into the night. He could not resent Gnipho for accepting Melissa’s favors that afternoon; a soldier’s life is a lonely one, the only women he ever sees are whores and bedraggled, terrorized refugees. It was not, after all, a betrayal in any real sense of the word, since Gnipho was actually doing him a genuine service at some risk to his own career. And it was impressive that Gnipho had been able to address his former commander with such a lack of self-consciousness. Petronius wondered if he himself would have been so at ease in the centurion’s position. Probably, that was the difference between a truly great soldier, like Gnipho, and a merely competent one. In any case, Melissa would not have offered herself if she hadn’t been sure of being accepted.

  Petronius turned back to his guests. Dessert had been served in his absence—apples, pears, apricots, and peaches on balsawood boats floating on the water table, along with a wide platter of beaten brass laden with Melissa’s favorite saffron honey cakes, golden and glistening in the lantern light. Smaller bowls of almonds, filberts, hazelnuts, pistachios, and walnuts, and rush mats of fresh Trebula cheese—the same cheese described in The Syrian Barmaid—had been laid out along the rim, untouched. Petronius could sense the tension in the air—Gnipho’s slip of the tongue had escaped no one. Who would speak first—one who could not bear to let the revelation go unremarked, or one who would seek to drown it in a torrent of banalities? An owl called from a distant cypress, the wind moaned in the empty sky, and the windbreaks thumped against their burden. They all waited.

  “Nice fellow, that centurion,” Anicius ventured hesitantly.

  “There are no pickets on the beach, Petronius,” Martialis said quietly, almost as if he were offering a threat. “He was sending you a message. He was presenting you with a gift.”

  Petronius sighed and lowered himself gingerly onto the edge of the water table. “There are no pickets, Martialis, because the tide has gone out and my yacht is beached until dawn. There was no message.”

  “Must you treat me like an idiot? The tide is high and you are free to sail. Why don’t you escape, for god’s sake? For the sake of those who love you?”

  “I have always been free to sail, Martialis. And it’s for the sake of those who love me that I … oh, somebody else explain it to him. I’m tired of it.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m leaving.” But no sooner had the young man begun to push himself up and back toward the rear of the couch than Melissa stopped him with a gently murmured “tut.”

  “Petronius is about to make his offerings, Marcus. You can’t leave now without offending our household gods.”

  “If they’re not offended by now, nothing can offend ‘em.” But he grudgingly resumed his place, glaring impotently at his host. Nereus and Persis circled the water table with pitchers, and the guests held out their hands to be washed in anticipation of the blessing.

  A small bronze tray bearing the necessary accessories had been placed before him, although Petronius had had no intention of saying any prayers to anyone tonight, and could scarcely muster the strength to stand. He saw now, however, that it would be easier and quicker to go through with it than to protest and make a scene, as this was what Melissa wanted. He could barely even remember the names of the tribal and family hearth gods, let alone their functions and order of precedence, but he rose to his feet and began to run through the ritual, muttering obscurely enough to mask his incompetence and indifference. Mechanically, repeating the standard liturgy that was drummed into every Roman from infancy, he pinched a few strands of saffron between his fingers and dropped them onto a mound of embers glowing in a gold dish, where its crackling and sparkle were to be taken as a good omen. He repeated the ritual with a dash of salt, a cube of raw lamb, and a palmful of wheat berries, dedicated respectively to Mercury, god of commerce; Pales, the shepherd god; and Ceres, patron of the harvest. A splash of wine on the soil went to Liber, god of fertility and the vine, and the superstitions were satisfied. At that very moment, as if triggered by the offerings, a distant roar of voices and a confused clanging of bells arose from the direction of the village. Exhausted, Petronius took a seat, then stretched out tentatively beside Melissa.

  “Midnight,” Lucilius muttered. “Festival’s begun.”

  Petronius turned to Martialis.

  “You can go now, boy.”

  “I’ve thought better of it, father Petronius,” Martialis responded, gazing up from his reclined position with mock ingenuousness, or disingenuous mockery. “You’ve promised your guests a story, and I’d like to stick around to hear it.”

  “What story did I promise?”

  “You promised young Brutus here and his dame the tale of how you came to be the emperor’s pimp.”

  “For shame.”

  “No, that’s all right, Cornelia. He can say whatever he likes tonight. Besides, he’s not that far off. I never was Nero’s pimp, but I could have been if I’d chosen to. He badgered me often enough, that’s for certain. I found it distasteful, and so I declined. Tigellinus doesn’t scruple that way, and he thrived as I fell from favor.”

  “Your scruples didn’t stretch that far, but they were awfully elastic, weren’t they, Petronius?”

  “They were, Martialis, they were. But this evening is about celebration, not retrospection. I made a vow not to make any speeches tonight.”

  “No speeches?” Martialis boomed grandiloquently, appealing to the others with arms outstretched. “Who ever heard of a grand public suicide without a valedictory?”

  “Best leave it, Martialis.”

  “I will not leave it, Anicius! What are we here for, if not to be witnesses to history? Who is this Petronius to deprive us of our rights? We are all here in expectation of a speech. You said so yourself, Melissa.”

  For the first time in all their years of acquaintance, Petronius saw Melissa blush. She dropped her face into the sleeve of her synthesis, and shook her head helplessly; when she returned Petronius’s gaze a moment later, she had recovered her composure, but Petronius resolved to spare her any further discomfiture.

  “I said nothing about a speech, Martialis,” she began, her tone restrained but unsteady. Petronius raised his arm to interrupt, and she fell silent. He knew what he would have to do. To balk now would seem churlish, and cast a pall over the rest of evening. He had set a trap for himself and walked right into it. Perhaps he had done it on purpose. There was so much that remained unclear to him, his own motives and impulses above all, and nothing that had yet transpired this evening—no fortuitous exchange, no pointed witticism, no unspoken communication—had justified his foolish hope in a moment of redemptive transcendence. Only now did he see that that was what he had been waiting for all night—for something to come along and knock him off his feet, to put all this turmoil into perspective—and that it wasn’t going to happen of its own accord. Whatever insight was going to come out of all this, if any, could only be the fruit of his own labors. Nobody was going to do it for him. A speech, then.

  “Well, what about it, Fabius, Pollia? You were indiscreet enough to be shocked by my sordid past. Are you genuinely curious enough to hear the rest of it? Will it ruin your dessert?”

  Fabius turned away, supine on his dignity and refusing to be drawn into the discussion. But Pollia, delicious Pollia, refused to be abashed, despite blushing so furiously that her slim neck glowed carnelian in the l
amplight reflected off the water table. For the third time that night, Petronius found himself aroused by her precocious discipline. Their eyes were locked, and along the viaduct that now connected them he sent her an army of couriers, each bearing an image of the life they would lead together in the alternate universe in which he survived the dawn. And in the opposite direction, she sent but one lone priestess to meet him with a Delphic ruling: If you had been with me, and not with her, you would not kill yourself tonight.

  “Well, Petronius, will you begin?” she offered with a sympathetic smile.

  “I don’t quite know where to begin.”

  “Come help yourself to a honey cake and a cup of this excellent Falernian, and I’m sure a beginning will suggest itself to you.”

  The wind picked up a little more, whistling now over the sul-furous comb of Mount Gaurus; the flames roared in the braziers, the sea beat against the granite escarpments, and there were eight of them in the night, spokes on a half-wheel, lying under two heavy blankets on a broad, deep couch, their faces almost touching. Petronius looked long into the depths of his cup, seeing nothing. He took a breath, pushed himself to his feet, and opened his mouth.

  There was a pebble pressing painfully into the back of his head. He reached round to remove it, and opened his eyes. It was not a pebble, but a square glass tile, much like the one he had found earlier, only turquoise. Perhaps it was time to call Cethegus the tiler in, have him refurbish the entire terrace while he was at it. Petronius made a mental note to have Anti-ochus see to it in the morning. There was a group of people gathered around him, peering anxiously into his face, and one of them—it was Martialis!—was blubbering like a baby. Petronius realized that he was lying on his back, and that they were all hovering above him, looking down.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “You fainted,” someone said.

  “Did I really?”

  “Good thing Fabius was there to catch you. Could have been very nasty.”

  “Thank you, Fabius. I’m feeling much better now. Somebody help me up. No, stand back.”

  Petronius rolled over onto his elbow and vomited up his entire supper, splashing a widening pool of reddish slop across a trio of prancing naiads. Melissa remained crouched beside him, her hand flat against his back, until he was fully drained. He felt quite lucid, quick-minded even, but his elbow trembled beneath him like an old man’s.

  “Where’s Persis?” Melissa called. “Oh never mind, they’re all gone. Marcus, bring Titus some water, will you?”

  “I’ll have the mulsum, rather.”

  “I’ll get this mess cleaned up. Where do you keep the buckets, Melissa?”

  “How should I know? Just use one of those wine bowls, will you?

  “Stay down there, Petronius. Don’t try to get up just yet.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Thank you, Marcus.”

  The wine was sweet and cold as well water, diluted by melted ice shavings. Petronius took a few sips and paused to see if it would stay down. When it did, he drained half the goblet in one draught, smacking his lips for effect and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like an old campaigner. Martialis was still hovering, his arm poised in midreach as if Petronius might drop the goblet at any moment, and his face was still wet.

  “You’re still crying, Marcus?”

  “You’re still dying, Titus?”

  The others, reassured that the crisis had passed, had moved off to allow the patient to recover in dignity, but Pollia remained, kneeling at his side on both knees like a seamstress. Her head tilted to one side like a puppy’s, she stared into his face with a look of stricken febrility while her palm rested absently on Petronius’s upper thigh. He suddenly realized that he was hard, very conspicuously so through the thin fabric of his tunic. Melissa, behind him, would be unable to see it, but Pollia had only to look down. Her hand was inches from his erection. What would she do, he wondered, if he contrived to move his thigh just so? Would she startle and pull her hand away, blush and stammer and scurry off? Or would her eyes widen and her fingers close around him, ever so slowly so as not to attract Melissa’s attention? Petronius recognized the fantasy as the memory of a long-forgotten episode, an afternoon spent in the emperor’s box at the hippodrome, and the recollection made him harder still, almost painfully so. What kind of new perversion was this? Was it his imagination’s conflation of the two women that had brought it on, or the thrill of public shame? More likely, he supposed, it was the same process as that which causes plants in the extremity of drought to flower prematurely before they die.

  “Hand me that cape and help me up, will you, Marcus?”

  “I don’t think you need my help getting up.”

  “Just help him to his feet, will you, Marcus?” Melissa said.

  Carefully positioning himself between Petronius and Melissa, Martialis first draped the cape over Petronius’s shoulders, allowing it to fall appositely across his hips, then hoisted him to his feet. Petronius imagined that Martialis would have to drag him across the terrace, but in fact his legs were in full working order and he had no trouble guiding them to the balustrade overlooking the south cove.

  “Wait with me here while I get my bearings.”

  They leaned over the parapet just as they had done at sunset, and in almost precisely the same spot, but now, of course, everything had changed. What had that been—six hours earlier? More than half a lifetime, and Petronius only had half a life left in his veins in any case. He was abruptly struck by an abject sense of futility. When it comes down to it, he thought, isn’t all civilization just an exercise in measuring time, in pacing off the foundations on which to build a model of the universe of oneself? But what’s the point when one can have no confidence in the constancy of what one is measuring? When forty years can go by faster than four hours, or a generation can be swallowed up in a matter of moments? What bearings can there possibly be in such a world? Petronius stared down into the black, restless waters of the cove, and realized that he did not especially care to live out the next few hours, the last ones given to him, and that he would have to find a justification for himself without much further delay.

  “She’s very attractive, your Pollia,” Martialis said noncommittally.

  “Very.”

  “Not my type. I like them slutty.”

  “Really?”

  “And foul-mouthed. But still.”

  “Not easy to find a slutty, foul-mouthed patrician virgin in your price range.”

  “She’s out there, I assure you. It’s just a matter of time. And patience. And money. And charm. And tact.”

  “I’d been thinking about bedding her. Pollia.”

  “Better get a move on.”

  “Too late now.”

  “What would Melissa say?”

  “Melissa? What’s she got to do with it?”

  “Titus? I was wondering.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think it would be all right if … After you’re gone … If Melissa and I …”

  “You must be joking.”

  “Well…”

  “First of all, she’d never have you.”

  “You don’t think? I fuck like a lion.”

  “So do lots of men. Many of them endowed with patience, money, charm, and tact, all of which you lack. And besides, she thinks of you as a son.”

  “It’s just that I thought, if the two of us could somehow get together … afterwards … it would be keeping something intact. Perpetuating this … whatever it is we have, the three of us. Almost like building you a shrine.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Marcus. Why don’t you just build me a real shrine, and the two of you can make me chaste offerings whenever you like.”

  “It was just a thought.”

  Martialis would always, and forever, be able to make people laugh, even, or perhaps especially, against their own better instincts. Petronius was grateful to him now, and grateful to have known him, however briefly, and pleased
, despite all the anger, with all he had brought to the evening. He was fairly confident now that it would all work out for the best, that Martialis would prove himself a faithful and good-faith biographer, and a steady comfort to Melissa, at least in the short term. Still, he worried about the boy, about his ability and willingness to keep his impulses in check—the sarcasm, the surfeit of emotion, the puritan honesty. Did he genuinely not understand how to get along in Roman society? Of all people, a poet at the mercy of patrons had to understand how to work the system; and yet, in spite of all his vaunted ambition, he made no effort to sweeten those who needed sweetening, to flatter those who needed flattering, or to cultivate a successor to Petronius, despite Petronius’s utter and abject failure to promote his career. And what would he do tomorrow?

  “Marcus, why do you cry all the time?”

  “I don’t cry all the time. I cry when I’m sad.”

  “And why do that?”

  “That’s how we do it in Spain. We cry when we’re sad, laugh when we’re happy, shout when we’re angry. It’s a relatively easy concept to grasp, even for a Roman. You should have met my uncle. He was a champion crier. He could turn it on and turn it off like …”

  “What I mean is, why don’t you try harder not to? It does you no credit, and will not endear you to potential sponsors.”

  “Endear me to potential sponsors? I’ve been accused of many things in my short and disreputable life, but no one has ever had the gall to call me ‘endearing’ to my face.”

  “Oh, stop. It’s not a game.”

  “You are so right. It is not a game. If it were a game, I should have no qualms about playing a role, counterfeiting my sincerity, making nice to those I despise. But it is my dignity, my integrity that we are talking about, the wide-open, unguarded corridors that connect my imagination to my pen. Those I will not compromise at any price.”

  “Oh, listen to you, a man without a denarius to his name. Can’t you see there’s no one else out there like me?”

  Martialis burst into tears and buried his face in Petronius’s shoulder, heaving and shaking.

  “But there is!” he snorted wetly.