The Uncertain Hour

by Jesse Browner

  “Now, let me see if I’ve got this right, Martialis. You are attacking us because we appreciate the beautiful things this world has to offer?”

  “No, Lucilius, because you do not appreciate them. You use them the way a whore uses a mirror. You peer into them and they make you look beautiful to yourself.”

  “Those are harsh words, coming from a poet. Will you tell me that your poetry doesn’t make you feel superior?”

  “The difference is that I make the poetry, I don’t consume it.”

  “How about making some poetry for us now, poet?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t sulk.”

  “I’m not sulking. I’m just not up to it tonight, that’s all.”

  Melissa leaned across the couch to whisper in Martialis’s ear, lightly touching the back of his neck with her fingertips, as a patient mother might do to an obstinate child. Petronius watched the anger and hurt release their hold on his features, and felt a momentary stab of jealousy, followed immediately by one of shame. Who, if not Martialis, should be the beneficiary of Melissa’s motherly instincts? He had far greater need and had shown far greater appreciation of them than Petronius ever had.

  After a moment, Martialis glanced up, met Petronius’s gaze for the briefest instant, then lowered his eyes and nodded his head.

  “Hooray!”

  “Something young and risqué!”

  “Something very rude, please.”

  “‘Away let us fly to the renowned cities of Asia.’”

  Martialis eased himself off the back of the couch and loped self-consciously around the side to face his audience at the head of the water table. Out of the shelter of the screens, his long hair and tunic, smeared with grease, sauce, and wine, snapped and fluttered wildly in the breeze, framed by the black silhouette of Mount Gaurus and the stars about it. His eyes were in deep shadow, his hands clasped demurely before him. He began to recite immediately, without introduction, his Spanish accent suddenly thick and unctuous, as if it were a separate, complementary instrument to the well-worn poem. After declaiming the first couple of lines, he raised his eyes and addressed himself exclusively to Petronius.

  The Syrian barmaid, her hair swept back in a Greek headband,

  expertly sways her sweet backside to the castanet,

  dances tipsy, luscious, in the smoke-filled tavern,

  tapping the noisy tambourine against her elbow.

  “Why stay out in the heat and dust

  when you’re so tired? How much better

  to lie back on a couch and take a drink!

  We have booths here, a gazebo, goblets, roses,

  pipes, lyres, and a summer-house

  cool under its awning of reeds.

  Just listen to the country pipes play a shepherd’s tune

  as gently as in any dale of Maenalia.

  We have house wine freshly decanted from its pitch-sealed jug,

  and a brook running by with a raucous gurgle.

  We have garlands of violet-blossom and yellow flowers,

  melilot twined with crimson rose, and lilies

  gathered in willow baskets by a nymph

  from beside a virgin stream. We have little cheeses

  dried on rush mats, waxy autumn plums, chestnuts and

  sweet red apples; we serve bread, and love, and wine.

  Look here, we have blood-red mulberries,

  thickly clustered grapes, green cucumber still hanging

  from its stalk. There’s the Guardian of the orchard,

  armed with his willow sickle—

  no need to fear his massive tool!

  “Come, traveler, your weary donkey is bathed in sweat,

  let him rest! Vesta loves a little donkey.

  The song of the cicadas is bursting through the treetops,

  the lizard’s cooling in his rocky nook.

  If you’re wise you’ll come lie down

  and drink straight from the summer jug,

  or call for crystal flutes if that’s your fancy.

  Come now and rest in the shade of the vine,

  wind a wreath of roses around your nodding head,

  and taste the lips of a fresh young girl.

  To hell with your prudish scowl—

  what good are fragrant garlands to a heap of ashes?

  Are you saving your wreath for your tombstone?

  Bring on the wine and the dice, and damn anyone

  who worries about tomorrow!

  Death is plucking at your ear: ‘Get on and live,’

  he says, ‘I’m coming.’”

  There was a brief pause, then a smattering of hollow-handed applause as Martialis continued to hold Petronius’s gaze. He knew perfectly well that it was one of Petronius’s favorites—that was why he had chosen it, among far more obvious and appropriate recitals for the occasion—and Petronius struggled to maintain the apposite balance of gratitude and cool poise. There would be no weakening of resolve here, certainly no tears or moist eyes (as there might be on a less fraught occasion), in response to the provocation. Now was the moment to hammer home that fact for the boy once and for all, to persuade him to abandon the role of spoiler for the rest of the evening. Petronius had no difficulty winning the staring match, and Martialis lowered his eyes submissively.

  “Sublime!” Anicius whispered.

  “They call it a minor work,” Cornelia said breathlessly, “but to me The Syrian Barmaid is Virgil at his best.”

  “It’s not Virgil,” said Lucilius.

  “What do you mean it’s not Virgil? Of course it’s Virgil. Isn’t it Virgil, Anicius?”

  “No one knows for certain who wrote it, Cornelia, but it is now thought not to be Virgil.”

  “Oh dear. What I don’t know. You have a Surisca, don’t you, Petronius? A lovely young thing like the barmaid, I seem to recall. What’s to become of her?”

  “I haven’t quite decided yet. As things stand, she goes to my brother, but I’d hate for him to have her. I may well alter my will before the evening is out. I’d offer her as a gift to Martialis, but he’d only spoil her. I think he ought to be made to pay for her, so that he can learn to appreciate the value of property and the responsibilities of a propertied man, but of course he can’t possibly afford her.”

  “I’d be pleased to lend it to him,” Anicius said. “What’s she worth to you?”

  “She’s worth nothing to me now. On the market, she’d fetch at least thirty-thousand sesterces, I should think.”

  “You said twenty-thousand earlier,” Martialis protested.

  “That was the insider’s price, dolt. You’d have known that if you’d put your mind to business once in a while instead of pussy. You could have leveraged the purchase and turned it around tomorrow. You’d have a hundred gold pieces in your purse instead of breadcrumbs. I may set her free instead.”

  “What a waste!”

  “She has a boyfriend in the village, it seems. A baker. They want to leave Cumae and set up in Rome. I could leave her the money to pay her taxes and start up a small business, but it’s a recipe for disaster, I’m sure of it. That country boy would be fleeced raw after five minutes in the Subura. The truth is, I don’t know what to do about her. I’m quite fond of her, and I don’t want to see her ruined.”

  “Now, if she were only a boy, I’d take her off your hands this minute.”

  “I’m sure of it, Anicius.”

  “What about Lucullo? Where’s he going?”

  “He’s already got his freedom. He’s more than earned it, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, Petronius, how could you? Now he’ll go into the catering business and we’ll have to pay through the nose for meals we used to get for free.”

  “Yes, you’ll have a hard row to hoe, that’s for certain. Now, please polish off all this fish while I attend to a little unfinished business. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “I can’t believe it’s not Virgil. I always thought it was Virgil. That line about the little ch
eeses …”

  Petronius slid off the mattress and sat at the edge of the couch, taking care to rise slowly, but the headache and dizziness had subsided and he was able to stand almost effortlessly, without wobbling. Aware of the eyes and the subtle lull in conversation behind him, he strode purposefully toward the house, trying to keep his shoulders back and to look straight ahead, not down at his uncertain feet. Commagenus was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, his arm outstretched for support, but Petronius ignored him and took the steps unaided, even skipping up the last two.

  “Is the vineyard company here?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have they had their supper?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Meet me in the little room in five minutes.”

  At the far end of the dining room, Petronius paused by the Hagesander bronze as Commagenus went on ahead to make his preparations. It was an essentially perfect work, priceless, Diana in full hunting regalia, posed in rest, leaning with one shoulder against her lance, left hand curled around the shaft just below the spearhead, cold eyes focused on some prey in the middle distance. Of course, she was magnificently youthful and vigorous, yet by depicting her at a moment of contemplation the sculptor had provided her with an immortal maturity, with none of the restless muscularity of the avid hunter in her prime. She would always be in her prime, so it meant nothing to her, less than nothing, not even the inchoate truth lying dormant in the bones and sinews of the heedless youth who thinks she will live forever, or doesn’t think about it all. Hagesander had understood precisely how such ignorance would affect her stance and the architecture of her body. She was untouchable, unmoved and unmovable, both more and less than human. Strange that he had ever found her lovely. Even in her rare, fleeting moments of officious disapproval, Melissa was infinitely more desirable and touching. The Diana had once been a prized possession; now she was nothing to Petronius—in fact, he felt rather sorry for her. Tomorrow, Petronius knew, Nero would claim possession of her and anything else that took his fancy. Perhaps it was better that way—better, in any case, than that it should all fall to Turpilianus. At least with Nero the statue would end up on public display in the vast new imperial palace going up on the flanks of the Palatine, instead of being salted away in that gloomy tomb of a villa Turpilianus had recently purchased up north. Petronius stroked Diana’s cheek with the knuckles of his left hand. Funny, he seemed to have more empathy for his statuary today than for his heirs and protégés. He moved on through the inner courtyard and into the kitchen.

  The kitchen staff had all but finished their cleanup. The room smelled of burnt honey and sawdust. The dishes had been washed and stowed already, and two slave girls were sluicing down the tiled floor with buckets of water. Platters of fruit, pastries, and cheese sat ready on the table to be taken out to the guests at Vel-lia’s command. Vellia perched on her stool in the corner, mumbling to herself as she pared a sorb apple, a crock of mulberry wine at her feet. Lucullo was nowhere to be seen. The members of the vineyard team, some dozen men of all ages, sat in sullen silence on the floor, barefoot and clad in their filthy work cloaks, enduring a harangue from their foreman, Marsius. They rose, slowly and wearily, upon Petronius’s entrance, but none would meet his gaze as he surveyed them from the doorway.

  Unlike his household staff, he barely knew these slaves, and not one by name, save Marsius. His vineyards were far up the slope, beyond the road to the bay, and on his rare inspections Petronius tended to reserve his communications for the foreman. In a sense, these men were more Marsius’s slaves than his own, and he suspected that Marsius was neither lenient nor generous with them. By now, they would have been apprised of the situation, but Petronius had no illusions that their grim silence somehow reflected sympathy for their master. Tomorrow, they knew, they would have a new owner, almost certainly someone equally remote and careless of their welfare, and little would change for them. More likely, they were fearful and superstitious in the presence of a walking dead man, eager to be away as fate closed in upon him and anxious to escape its mysterious net. His death meant nothing to them—some, perhaps, were glad of it—but the stench of it made them uncomfortable, as it does to cattle and all creatures whose life, howsoever circumscribed and brutish, is their sole possession. Perhaps, too, they gloated inwardly at his downfall as an instance of divine justice. They would endure a while longer in their misery while the lofty were cut down in their prime and pride, and Petronius stood coolly puzzled that this thought could be of any comfort to them.

  Marsius stepped up and made his obeisance. Petronius nodded and turned from him so as to include the entire company in his statement.

  “Men, I’m sure you know by now that tomorrow you will have a new master. Perhaps it will be my brother, Petronius Turpilianus, or perhaps the emperor. That will be at the pleasure of Nero Caesar. Either way, you will serve him loyally as you have me. Each of you will have five silver denarii from my estate. Marsius, you will have leasehold of your cottage and its kitchen garden, to revert to the estate upon your death, plus one gold denarius. Now you are all free for the evening. Enjoy the festivities.”

  “Io Saturnalia!” the men responded gloomily, already shuffling toward the back door.

  “Hail, Petronius!” Marsius tried halfheartedly to rally them to one expression of respect, but the muttered response was more curse than farewell, and Marsius was left to shrug sheepishly as he followed them out. In the end, even he owed nothing more to Petronius than this.

  Petronius stood in the center of the room, quite at a loss about what to do or think. This feeling of dismay was new to him, and disturbing in its own right. Of course, in the army his men’s high opinion of him had been of great concern, but that had been for practical reasons of effective leadership; and, besides, the admiration had been largely mutual. He had never, for the most part, extended that concern to his own slaves. This was the second time today that he had felt himself disappointed by a slave’s lack of interest in his welfare, and he found it curious that his heart should choose to indulge this particular foible in its waning hours.

  Petronius was put in mind of a story he had once heard Seneca tell. It concerned a vulgar, wealthy freedman, one Calvi-sius Sabinus, who had paid 100,000 sesterces apiece for slaves who had committed the entire life’s work of various poets to memory. One slave knew all of Homer, another Hesiod, and so on through each of the nine lyric poets. Sabinus had done this, Seneca insisted, because he believed that whatever any of his slaves knew, he himself also knew. It was not only their bodies and their labor, but their minds and everything therein that Sabinus claimed to own. Petronius remembered the moral that Seneca drew from the story—“No man is able to borrow or buy a sound mind, but depraved minds are bought and sold every day”—but Petronius had seen it differently. Sabinus had most surely not been motivated by generosity, but he had given these slaves a purpose in life. Each was trained to do only one thing, and to do it superlatively; had they been given any other task than the one their master assigned them, their gifts would have been squandered, their destiny thwarted. As it was, however, they were given the opportunity to fulfill that destiny—an opportunity afforded to so few on this earth, free or otherwise.

  Petronius had no such gift for his slaves, and in consequence was never quite certain what it was he expected from them in return. Their labor, their loyalty, their cooperation, assuredly. And beyond that?

  How foolish it would be to expect love from one’s slave! Petronius knew this as well as anyone, having been raised, educated, fed, clothed, and cosseted by them his entire life. The nature of the relationship between master and chattel was, ultimately, one of brute force, or at least its implicit threat. And yet even this affiliation was not entirely free of fuzzy, porous borders. After all, Plato and every other philosopher agreed that men love what is good, and Petronius liked to think of himself as a good man, or perhaps as a man aspiring to goodness. Was love between master an
d slave theoretically possible, then? What of Demetrius, who knew his intimate thoughts, in whom he had confided and to whom, in moments of doubt, he had even turned for advice and solace? What of Lucullo, who permitted himself liberties of address with his master that not even Martialis would entertain? What of Surisca, upon whom he had lavished expensive gifts, and whose pleasure in bed he catered to as assiduously as he did the most high-born of his lovers? He was genuinely fond of these people; he was protective and solicitous—more, surely, than what was merely required by the defining behavior of a “good master”? Could a master permit himself transgressions of intimacy that a slave must never reciprocate? If a master could be fond, could a slave also? Petronius doubted this, having seen so little evidence of it in his own life and that of society, so why now, of all times, did he feel it as an absence and a reproach that his slaves could not love him, nor even summon the energy to bid him a fond farewell? He recalled Demetrius’s face earlier in the evening, how he had misread the scribe’s fear as affection, and felt like a man who has left his home with something terribly important, yet something he is unable to identify, undone.

  “Master?” It was Vellia, still in her corner.

  “What is it?”

  “I only wish to say, sir, that you have been a good master to us, and we all know it.”

  “Thank you, Vellia.”