Roman Games psm-1

by Bruce Macbain

  “Perishing! Well, we shouldn’t allow that. Best eat your fill tonight, my friend, for who knows what tomorrow may bring, as some poet has no doubt said.”

  The air crackled with malice.

  Trying his best not to overhear any of the conversation around him, Pliny’s eyes strayed to the imperial couple. Domitian was a man of forty-five who had once been thought handsome. Now baldness and a paunch had ruined his looks. Beneath dense black brows, quick, mistrustful eyes peered out.

  Behind him, as always, stood his cup-bearer and bed-mate, Earinus, a young boy of exceptional beauty except that his head was grotesquely small. As the boy leaned over to refill his master’s goblet, Domitian reached under his red tunic-the youth always wore red-and ran his hand up the inside of his smooth leg. Earinus smiled. The empress, however, did not. Domitia Longina Augusta, stared stonily ahead of her, putting not a morsel of food to her lips. A man of breeding does not fondle his pet boy in his wife’s presence.

  She was a proud woman, the daughter of Nero’s best general. She had inherited her father’s strength of character, but, sad to say, his looks as well. She was as tall as a man, with a square jaw and prominent nose. Her face was thickly coated with powder of white lead-some said, to hide the bruises made by her husband’s fists.

  It was not only with boys that he humiliated her. If one believed the palace “smoke,” Domitian had committed incest with Julia, his niece, a pale and delicate girl, and then forced her to have a near fatal abortion.

  At a signal from Parthenius, waiters-Ethiopians, Egyptians, Syrians, Greeks, all of them beautiful young boys-came round with the appetizer course on trays of solid gold. On offer were baked dormice rolled in honey and poppy seed, Lucrine oysters, pickled eggs, and snails fattened on milk.

  Course succeeded course without pause: sow’s womb stuffed with herbs and surrounded by the teats boiled in milk, lamprey eels from the straits of Messina, roast boar, mullet, hams ingeniously carved in the shape of pigeons, an enormous lobster garnished with asparagus, goose livers with truffles, and sea urchins. For drink there was Falernian wine, strained through snow. The beautiful boys refilled the crystal goblets as fast as they were emptied. Other slaves hovered about the guests, ready with silver ewers of rosewater to pour on greasy fingers and to offer their long hair with which to dry them.

  Pliny was offended in his philosopher’s soul by these grotesque displays. He took just a little of each dish and drank abstemiously, as ever. He doubted whether anyone had much of an appetite left after what they’d been through. Still, his table fellows outdid each other in praising the fare, heaped up their plates, and belched enthusiastically.

  Meanwhile, to entertain them, dwarfs dressed in miniature suits of Greek armor fought bare-breasted Amazons. The guests did their best to look entertained but their laughter was too gay, their smiles tense and wary. The only safe topic for dinner table conversation was tomorrow’s great sacrifice to be followed by days of theater and chariot racing.

  As the dessert course of imported fruit and honeyed wine came round, the emperor rapped for silence. “Papinius Statius,” he called out, gesturing to the couch alongside him, “one of the few living poets worth hearing, is with us tonight. Though he is weighed down by years, he has obliged me by coming up to Rome to attend the Games and immortalize them in verse. I have asked him to recite to us from a work in progress.”

  This was received with dutiful murmurs of thanks. The emperor’s love of poetry was genuine; he rewarded poets lavishly and provided copies of their works to the public libraries.

  Statius, a frail old man with wispy white hair, got shakily to his feet. His bearing was patrician. He gravely acknowledged the emperor and empress, calling them “our own Jupiter and Juno.” In a quavering voice he read portions of an epic poem on which he was engaged and, soon running out of strength, sank down on his couch again. The guests applauded warmly, especially Pliny, who dabbled at poetry himself. Domitian, in a voice noticeably thick with wine, praised the old fellow’s years of loyalty and service to the Flavian House. “Where will I find your like again, Statius. Nothing but your poetry gives me pleasure any more.” It seemed sincerely meant. A mood almost of warmth had been created by Statius’ presence, but it wasn’t to last long.

  The emperor’s tone changed in an instant. “I have lost a close friend today,” he said in a somber voice. “A pillar of the government. A colleague of yours, Senators. I heard of his death this morning with a sense of shock and”-he selected a succulent mushroom-“outrage.”

  “Oh, irreparable loss,” murmured Regulus with feeling. Others felt differently. Lackey of the regime, enemy of his own class, one of Domitian’s most notorious and best paid informers, compared with whom Regulus was a mere tyro, who else but Ingentius Verpa? No one had dared to speak his name all evening, though his murder was uppermost in everyone’s mind. Now the emperor himself was going to confront them with it.

  “It’s said he was killed by a slave,” Domitian looked hard into their faces. “Perhaps. Such things have happened. And yet there may be something deeper at work here. Atheism. Atheism! Verpa had uncovered its poison in the bosom of my own family. And, though it saddened me, I punished it as it deserved. Now, I swear to you, Senators, I do not take this lightly. Aurelius Fulvus is going to give his immediate attention to the case-we have already spoken about it-and I promise you, punishment will be swift.”

  This was answered with loud “hear, hears” from the guests, whose sentiments, this time, were genuine. No one lamented Verpa, nor did any of them have much of an opinion about this atheism, which seemed to exercise the emperor so much. Still, Verpa was a Roman senator and a slave owner like themselves. That was enough.

  “…swift…” the emperor’s words trailed off and he sank back on his couch. He held out his cup to Earinus for more wine. Momentarily his eyes closed. Pliny was struck suddenly by how tired he looked.

  The soiree, it seemed, was over. At a gesture from Parthenius, the dining room doors swung open and the servants crowded in carrying the guests’ outdoor shoes. Pliny stood up with the others.

  “You and I will remain a moment,” Fulvus whispered close beside him.

  With a curt gesture Domitian dismissed his wife. “You! You ate nothing tonight,” he shouted at her departing back. “Did you think your food was poisoned? I don’t need poison to deal with you.”

  “Earinus, leave us.” He addressed his pet in a gentler tone. “Parthenius, get rid of those donkeys.” He meant the slaves, who were making a racket with the plates. They fled.

  “And will you be needing me further, Master?” the chamberlain murmured.

  “Need you? Mehercule, what would I do without you!” Parthenius accepted this tribute with bowed head.

  Domitian strode to the side of the room, where silk tapestries hung between the columns. He pulled each one aside and looked behind it.

  “They spy on me, you know,” apparently meaning the slaves.“ They’re being paid to do it. They think they can evade me, a god! But I’ll catch them out!”

  “Shall I have them killed, Ruler of the Universe?” Parthenius asked mildly.

  The Ruler of the Universe sat down on a vacant stool and squeezed his temples with his fingertips. “As you think best.” The voice was flat and lifeless. “Now, Fulvus,” he turned his gaze on the prefect, “make your report. I could hear the shouts myself, I put no stock in them. I trust you heard the whispers. Who among them is plotting my death?”

  “No, Caesar, impossible!” This was Parthenius again, an expression of horror on his face.

  “What, then, am I mad?” Domitian rounded on him. “An emperor is the most unfortunate of men, because no one believes that his life’s in danger until he loses it!”

  Pliny felt as though an elephant’s foot was on his chest. He struggled to draw a breath, then blurted out, “I heard nothing, Caesar, nothing at all. Not a word. Nothing…”

  “I think you’ve made yourself quite clear, Gaius Pli
nius,” said Fulvus with a touch of sarcasm. “I too heard nothing distinct, Caesar. If it had not been for Nerva…”

  “Nerva,” Domitian said very softly. “We will have to do something about Cocceius Nerva.”

  “And the unfortunate matter of Senator Verpa?” Fulvus said. “I’ve had a detachment of troopers in the house since early this morning. What more do you wish done?”

  “What do I wish?” Domitian gave him a ferocious look. “If I can’t protect my senators from being murdered in their beds, I shall have no allies at all among ’em. I suppose the slaves did it. I want them all tried and burnt alive as soon as the Games are over and the courts are in session again. Fifteen days from tomorrow. Plenty of time.”

  “More than enough, Caesar,” the prefect replied, “if these were fifteen ordinary days. But it is my job also to maintain public order while the city is packed with visitors. Crowds must be managed, drunkenness and petty crimes repressed. Add to that the number of, ah, clandestine operations that you have entrusted to me. All this with only four thousand men. I can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “Are you getting old, Aurelius Fulvus? Is it time I replaced you?”

  “Please, Lord of the World, allow me to explain.” His voice cringed though his body remained upright. “If I were to take on the investigation personally, would it not seem to make too much of Verpa’s death? On the other hand, we don’t want to assign it to a mere tribune or centurion. I had thought to put a member of my staff in charge of it. A proven man, a man with many friends in the Senate chamber. In short, my acting deputy, Pliny-that is, with your approval, of course.”

  Pliny, who had let his attention wander, began at once to stammer. “But, Prefect, I am a probate lawyer, not a policeman! In fact, I have made up my mind to return to my practice.”

  “You’ve said nothing to me of resigning,” the prefect said in a menacing tone. “Will you oppose yourself to my recommendation and Our Lord’s wish?”

  “Why, no, I…”

  Domitian gripped Pliny’s shoulder with a hand that could have crushed an apple and brought his face close-that face with its eagle’s beak, jutting chin, thick neck. The red-rimmed eyes searched his. “It is my wish. I have been…” he searched for the word, “preoccupied lately or I would have spoken to you sooner, my dear Pliny. You know your late uncle served my father with the utmost loyalty and discretion for many years. I’ve already helped your career along, haven’t I? Without a word from me you’d still be waiting for your praetorship with the rest of the provincial newcomers.” “I know, Caesar, and I’m most…” “Grateful? Of course you are. Then show your gratitude now.” “Certainly, Caesar, it’s only…”

  “You have your uncle’s temperament, you know. Scrupulous, meticulous, careful. And your private life is irreproachable, that counts for a great deal with me. I only wish I had more senators like you instead of those ‘philosophers,’ as they like to call themselves. I admire philosophy, and so do you. But those people, they use it as a cloak for treason! I know you agree with me.”

  Pliny abandoned all attempts at speech and merely nodded. The emperor’s grip still held him fast.

  “I knew I could count on you. Now then, you need only attend the procession and sacrifices tomorrow morning and then again on the Nones. The rest of your time you will devote to this matter. Understood? And now go home to your lovely child-bride. I envy you. You see the dragon I married!” Domitian let out an unpleasant laugh. “Come and kiss me, Gaius Plinius.” Domitian offered his cheek, a mark of signal favor.

  Pliny and the city prefect emerged into the sultry September night. The sun had set hours ago and, except for a lamp glowing from a window here and there, darkness covered the great city like a lid on a pot. The two men stood talking at the foot of the steps while their litter slaves stretched and shook themselves. “This business tonight in the furnace room. You must have known,” Pliny said, trying not to show his anger. “Not in every particular,” Fulvus answered easily. “But inviting the wives!”

  “Much more likely than their husbands to let something spill. Now let us have done with complaining and turn to the matter of Verpa.”

  “You might at least have prepared me for that! I’m a probate lawyer. I’m not used to dealing with criminals-at least, not this sort of criminal.”

  Fulvus waved off the note of indignation. “Nothing could be simpler. Don’t worry the thing to death like one of your convoluted inheritance cases. Just have a look around the place tomorrow, take depositions from the son and the woman Scortilla-she’s a bit of a whore, I’m told. Do you know her? No? What chaste ears you have. Question the slaves, of course. Oh, don’t look so queasy, they won’t need much tickling. Someone will talk, they always do.”

  “The slaves are being confined in the house?”

  “Yes, well the Tullianum is full up at the moment with more important prisoners awaiting a-ah-final disposition of their cases, if you get my meaning.”

  Pliny knew what he meant.

  “So, no place else to put them. Anyway, then all you have to do is sit down and write an impassioned speech condemning them. All in a day’s work for a lawyer, I would have thought. And the emperor and I will be most grateful to you. Now, I’ve assigned you a centurion-manners a bit rough, but a good man-and five troopers from the City Battalions, all I can spare, I’m afraid. As for the slaves, I’ve ordered them collared and shackled in their sleeping quarters, and that’s where they’ll stay until we execute them. Why can’t this great city of ours build a proper prison?” He raised his arms to heaven. “Well, goodnight, my friend. Best to your wife.”

  As they mounted their litters, Fulvus called back, “Full dress uniform tomorrow. Mustn’t let the Praetorians outshine us.”

  Chapter Four

  Late that night Pliny peeped into his wife’s bedroom. It was hot and she had thrown off the covers. She lay on her back, her chestnut hair spread out on the pillow, the swelling curve of her belly a gray outline against the pale lamplight. Old Helen slept on a cot at the foot of the bed.

  He made scarcely a sound but Calpurnia awoke and sat up in the bed. “Dearest, forgive me…” She took pride in always waiting up for him.

  “Don’t be silly. Helen was right to make you go to bed.”

  “Was it a fine dinner? I wish I could have gone.”

  “I am inexpressibly happy that you did not. Go back to sleep like a good girl. We’ll talk in the morning.” He kissed her forehead and felt a surge of tenderness run through him.

  In his own bed in the adjoining room Pliny tossed fitfully. One could have said, before tonight, that if ever a man was pleased with himself, comfortable with his certainties, satisfied with his circumstances, and confident of his future, it was he.

  Now doubts assailed him. He had attended dinners at the palace before but nothing like tonight’s grotesquerie. Was the emperor going mad as some in the Senate whispered? And if so, then where did duty lie? Could a good man serve a bad emperor and keep his own hands clean? Pliny was on the horns of a dilemma. He was a good man. But he was also an ambitious one, and he could not put out of his mind the emperor’s words to him: a chance to emulate his uncle, that paragon of learning, virtue, and dedication.

  He tossed and turned, but sleep would not come. He counted the hours until dawn, when he must rise and present himself for the opening ceremony of the Roman Games, a festival that occupied two weeks in the middle of September-not September-“Germanicus,” he must remember to say! For many senators and lawyers, with the cessation of public business, the Games, which only the priests were strictly required to attend, meant a fifteen-day vacation from the sweltering cesspit of Rome to their estates in the hills. But no such respite for him this year. And all because this wretched Verpa had got himself killed.

  Pliny had known the man only by sight and reputation. The world of senatorial society was large enough that he could avoid meeting people he found disagreeable, and Verpa had never shown any interest in meeting him,
the gods be thanked! The man had been a notorious informer all the way back to Nero’s reign.

  Informers were a cancer on the Roman Senate. Every emperor began his reign by denouncing the evil, but sooner or later succumbed to the temptation of listening to the vicious innuendo spread by the informer against his fellow senators and their families. Condemnation was certain, and the informer divided the victim’s property with the emperor.

  Verpa had begun by denouncing a woman of senatorial family for treason because a slave saw her undressing before the emperor’s image, and, on another occasion, he condemned a man for carrying a coin with Domitian’s portrait into a privy. But he had outdone himself when he denounced Clemens, the emperor’s own cousin, and his wife, Domitilla, on a charge of atheism and performing Jewish practices. Verpa had brought this charge openly in the Senate. Pliny had been there to hear him. It was indeed a shocking revelation, but Verpa had incontrovertible evidence to back it up, and the emperor went nearly insane with anger. Clemens was swiftly strangled and his wife banished for life to an island. Sextus Ingentius Verpa was riding high; that is, until someone butchered him in the night. Tomorrow Pliny must poke a stick into this anthill and turn it over. The thought of it revolted him.

  When at last he drifted off to sleep, naked black children invaded his dreams, hanging on his arms and legs, dragging him somewhere he did not want to go.

  Pliny was not the only one whose night was filled with terrors. Domitianus Caesar, Lord and God, emperor and high priest of Rome, sat alone in his bed chamber-his refuge, his inner sanctum, where few ever penetrated. Because he feared the dark, tiers of lamps made the room almost as bright as day. A bluebottle struggled between his thumb and forefinger, waving its small legs. He raised a needle-sharp stylus and ran it through. More flies buzzed inside a baited jar, waiting execution.

  When he was a boy, ignored, despised by everyone, Domitian would while away whole days brooding over hurts and resentments. Lately he had begun to do it again. The Helmsman of the World had sunk into a misery of fear.