Roman Games

by Bruce Macbain

  By mid-morning the last animal had been dispatched. A portion of each was burnt on the altar and tasted by the priests. The fat-rich smoke rose up and drifted over the city. The remaining carcasses were already being carted off to the city’s butcher shops for sale as ordinary food. The Roman Games would continue, however, for another fourteen days, beginning with a round of stage plays in all the theaters and concluding with five days of chariot races in the Circus Maximus. During this time public business came to a standstill. The law courts did not meet and therefore no verdict could be handed down in the Verpa case.

  The Verpa case, thought Pliny with an inward groan. He must begin his investigation, such as it was, today. The prefect’s orders. As the crowd dispersed, Pliny summoned his bearers. First, lunch and a mid-day nap.

  At home his slaves unbuckled his helmet, his boots, and his cuirass. He shrugged the thing off gratefully, letting his belly expand with a sigh. He felt as though he hadn’t drawn a deep breath in three hours. His tunic was sticking to him. A slave hurried up with a basin of cool water and a sponge. There wasn’t time for a proper bath.

  Calpurnia had felt nauseous again in the morning. He was happy to see her feeling better now. He called for a light meal and watered wine for them both and, while he ate, answered her endless questions distractedly.

  Because something was bothering him. Not Verpa. But something to do with the ceremony. It had occurred to him on the way home. He had not had a clear view of the altar during the sacrifice and hadn’t really been paying attention. But had he counted wrong? Wasn’t someone missing who should have been there? He dismissed the thought from his mind. He had more pressing things to think about.

  Chapter Six

  Earlier the same day.

  Marcus Valerius Martialis awoke before dawn from long and necessitous habit, yawned heavily, and heaved his bulk out of bed. He was a big man, barrel-chested, coarse-featured, with a broad forehead, which, as soon as he stirred, began to throb horribly, the result of too much bad wine and too little sleep.

  His breakfast, a cup of watered vinegar and a lump of hard cheese, delayed him only a moment. He splashed water on his face, combed his thick head of curly, salt-and-pepper hair, and rubbed a bit of pumice over his teeth. His toilet complete, he tipped the chamber pot out the window, flung on his threadbare toga, and was out the door. The whole process had not taken the tenth part of an hour.

  Martial inhabited a one-room flat on the third floor of a ruinous seven-story insula on the Quirinal Hill, near the Temple of Flora. In pitch darkness, he descended the sagging steps. That the stairwell stank of urine, charcoal, and rancid oil, he scarcely noticed.

  Outside, there were other mice—Martial thought of himself and his fellows as mice—scurrying along the dark streets toward the proud houses of their patrons. Such was the life of a humble client, and Martial, after a moment’s thought, turned his steps to the house of one Paulus, who lived on the fashionable Esquiline Hill, a strenuous walk away. As he walked, he thrust his large head forward as if against an invisible wind. It was his characteristic gait and suggested a personality that combined extroversion, aggression, and a dogged determination to show a brave face to a world that undervalued him.

  By the time he arrived, his toga was wet with sweat and he was in a foul mood. And then to be told by the exquisite door-slave that Master was not holding a salutatio this morning!

  Merda! thought Martial. He’s probably dancing attendance on some patron of his own. Oh, the ignominy of being a slave’s slave!

  Cursing all the way, he barely arrived in time to receive a measly handout of twenty-five coppers from Arruntius Stella, another patron, who happened to dwell in the same region of the city. With this pittance in his purse and the sun rising over the crest of the hill, Martial set about his day; a day that would end by changing his life in ways that even his rich imagination could not have pictured.

  Making his way down the Argiletum toward the Forum Romanum, he stopped at a sidewalk barbershop and took his place on the bench of waiting customers.

  Martial was a swarthy and hirsute man, covered cheek, chest, and leg with coarse black hair, like the true Spaniard he was; and this in a city where men and women of fashion regularly depilated themselves. After two or three days without a shave you could have painted an eye on his forehead and passed him off for Cyclops. Women, who were accustomed to smooth-skinned men, were sometimes contrarily attracted to the hairiness of him, but to sleek young boys, whom he much preferred, his body seemed a kind of insult to their own, and they shied away from him, though he pursued them tirelessly.

  The barber greeted him with a toothy smile. The man had a tolerably good hand; he didn’t slash more than one or two throats a week. Yet at that particular moment he was attempting to plaster a rather nasty cut with spider’s web soaked in oil and vinegar.

  The principal business of a sidewalk barbershop, however, was gossip. To the snip-snap of the iron shears, to the rasp of the razor and the occasional yelp of pain, a desultory commentary on the week’s events went on among the bystanders. Not that one ever spoke carelessly. Even poor people had learned to be guarded. It was well known that plainclothesmen of the Prefecture hung about in taverns, and in the baths and basilicas listening for rumors, for the careless joke, the murmur of complaint.

  The chief topic, even two days after the event, was still the Verpa affair. It was not only senators who felt themselves vitally interested in the outcome of that case; anything that touched upon slaves was bound to engage the Roman proletariat, a great many of whom were of slave descent. Martial, who had spent the last several days shut up in his garret, writing feverishly and, when inspiration flagged, drinking himself into a stupor, was very likely the only man in Rome who had heard nothing about it, and so he listened intently to the handful of facts and the basketful of speculation that was going the rounds.

  Warding off the barber’s attempt to perfume his hair—for how could he ridicule scented dandies in his poems if he smelt like one himself?—Martial paid and went on his way.

  By now the sun was climbing the sky and the streets were filling with holiday-makers. Tendrils of smoke rising from the Capitolium carried the aroma of burnt flesh out over the city. Passing a street-corner urinal, he unlimbered a mentula of noble proportions and directed his stream into the foaming contents. It would be collected by the fullers and contribute to the process by which togas were whitened. While he pissed long and thoughtfully, a small crowd of onlookers gathered round.

  “That’s Martial,” whispered one to another, “the one that writes the dirty poems.”

  A glow of pride suffused him. He was known everywhere!

  Strolling farther down the Argiletum, he found himself at Atrectus’ bookstore, one of his favorite haunts. Its doorposts from top to bottom bore advertisements of the poets whose works were for sale. Inside, pigeon holes containing the tightly rolled scrolls of authors, living and dead, lined the walls. And in one of them, tagged with a price of five silver denarii, was his latest volume of epigrams—biting, satirical, abusive, indecent. Would anyone read them if they weren’t? And people did read them. Still, he reflected bitterly, the imperial patronage that he longed for eluded him.

  Exchanging pleasantries with the proprietor, he made to leave, only to find his way blocked by a small army of clients on the door step, the entourage, he guessed immediately, of Publius Papinius Statius, most favored of the emperor’s court poets. The two men detested each other.

  The frail Statius, his skeletal form swathed in a thick and glistening toga, his white hair meticulously coifed, was just descending from his litter.

  Martial, seeing no escape, greeted him with a wolfish grin. “Salve, Publius Papinius. You’ve been away from Rome so long I thought you were dead. Imagine my disappointment.”

  The clients hummed like angry bees.

  But Statius returned him a benevolent smile. “My dear Martial! What a delight! Our Lord and God invited me up for the holidays.
I recited a new work of mine at a dinner he gave just last night. I must confess, I was gratified by his warm praise of it. And how are you? Still a poor man? Your toga’s quite worn out.” His lean fingers stroked it.

  “Not as worn out as your culus.”

  Statius was unruffled. “Let me make you a present of a new one.”

  “No thanks. People will ask what I had to do to you to get it.”

  Statius’ composure was beginning to crack just a little. “That tongue of yours will land you in trouble one day, my foul-mouthed friend.”

  “What’s your tongue been getting into lately, some old hag’s crack?”

  “Guttersnipe!” Statius snarled. “I know what eats at you night and day. Put it out of your mind. Our Lord and God is offended by your indecency. Send as many poems up to the palace as you like. I assure you they’re taken out with the trash. And your crude attempts at flattery make us all laugh.”

  The old man’s hands were shaking, red spots were burned on each cheek. Martial was in hardly better condition.

  “Out of my way! Must you block the road with this army of toadies?”

  Statius, his voice thick with sarcasm, commanded, “Make way, make way there for Martial, Prince of Poets!”

  “And so I am!” cried Martial as he shouldered his way through the crowd, feeling all their eyes on his back. It was a weak exit and he knew it. If he had been in a bad mood before, he was in a worse one now.

  The Forum Romanum was by now packed with people, mostly out-of-towners, waiting to see the emperor, priests, and senators descend from the Capitolium. In front of the Rostra, a flurry of excitement broke out where a ragged street-corner haranguer, one of the Cynic breed, no doubt, was being hustled away by troopers of the City Battalions. The emperor’s relentless war against philosophers continued.

  Martial mingled with the jostling crowd, while keeping a hand tight on his purse to ward off pickpockets, though indeed there wasn’t much in his purse but cobwebs. He searched the sea of faces for Diadumenus.

  Diadumenus was fifteen years old, had skin like alabaster, long golden hair, and buttocks, round, white and smooth, that no woman’s could equal. And he was heartless. Martial longed for the dewy kisses which he granted just often enough to keep the poet forever in pursuit. How he ached for the boy! Hopeless to look for him in this mob. Anyway, he was probably still asleep in some rich man’s bed, his curls spread out prettily upon the pillow. Parades didn’t interest Diadumenus much.

  The crowd dispersed, the hungry to the butcher shops, where beef would be cheap and plentiful today, the rest to the magnificent open-air theaters for a day of entertainment. Actors were celebrities almost on a par with charioteers and gladiators, and Romans were eager connoisseurs of the art. Each boasted his own noisy claque of supporters. For those who couldn’t afford the price of a ticket there were still the street-corner buskers, block parties, and neighborhood processions. Domitian had banned the cruder forms of pantomime, the sexy, scurrilous burlesques that had so often led to rioting and sedition. Still, the comedies and farces provided ribaldry enough for most tastes.

  Martial debated with his grumbling stomach, but decided at last for the theater. That would occupy his day, he’d eat a sausage or two during the intermission, and then it would be time to head for the baths and the serious business of hunting up a dinner invitation.

  Chapter Seven

  The same day.

  The seventh hour of the day.

  “Name and unit, centurion?” Brusque tone, Pliny admonished himself. Assert your authority at once.

  “Titus Ursius Valens, sir.” The officer sketched a salute. “Twelfth Cohort, City Battalions.” He was a bristle-headed, big-boned man and stood a head taller than Pliny. “And your name would be, sir, if I might ask?”

  The tone was faintly insolent—the professional policeman suffering the meddling amateur. Pliny ignored the question.

  Gaius Plinius Secundus was thirty-five years old but had the smooth, boyish face of a much younger man. It was not a handsome face but a pleasant one: pink cheeks and mild blue eyes. His family hailed from the Lake Como region, where Celtic blood mingled with the Italian. It accounted for his rosy complexion and the light brown hair that lay in soft curls across his forehead and neck. He worried that his appearance lacked the gravitas of a Roman senator and so he frowned whenever he wanted to impress. He was frowning now. “Where are your men posted, centurion?”

  “Two upstairs guarding the slaves, sir. Two more at the front and back doors, one more for relief.”

  “Quarters comfortable enough? You may be here for several days.”

  Valens smiled crookedly. “Compared to the camp, sir? This is a holiday.”

  The City Battalions, under the command of Aurelius Fulvus, the prefect, shared a camp with the Praetorian Guard on the outskirts of Rome. Rivalry between the two forces was intense; insults and fistfights were a common occurrence. The five thousand Praetorians, pampered and well-paid, were the emperor’s household troops. The troopers of the City Battalions, on the other hand, were the poor relations—understaffed, underpaid, with little chance of promotion. But it was they, nonetheless, who did the hard work of policing this great, teeming beehive of a city with its million inhabitants, half a dozen languages, festering slums, and casual brutality, to the extent that it could be policed at all.

  “Hardly a holiday,” Pliny said, maintaining his scowl. “We’ve serious business to do here.”

  “Quite so, sir.” Again, the mocking tone.

  “And where’s the new master, what’s his name, Lucius?”

  “Sleeping late, sir. I’ve sent one of the lads to rouse him. With the slaves all locked up, the house has stopped running.”

  “And where have you put them?”

  “We’ve crammed ’em into two large rooms upstairs. Forty-six all told, about equally male and female with some kids. The prefect has ordered them all shackled and collared, just to be on the safe side. If they all decided to make a break for it we aren’t enough to hold ’em.”

  “Hardly likely, Centurion.” Pliny found this business of chaining distasteful, but he couldn’t countermand Fulvus’ order. While they waited for Lucius to appear, Pliny looked around the atrium. It was twice the size of his own and ornamented everywhere with symbols of the cult of Isis. One whole wall offered a crowded panorama of imaginary Nile scenes done in exquisite mosaic: reed boats plied the river, crocodiles yawned, palm trees swayed, throngs of happy worshipers crowded little temples. Elsewhere in the room stood statues of Queen Isis holding her sistrum and water jug, and bearded Serapis, her consort, and jackal-headed Anubis.

  It was no surprise, Pliny reflected, that Verpa and his family had become enthusiastic devotees of the cult which the emperor himself favored. All of it mere fawning imitation probably. As far as he knew, Verpa didn’t have a spiritual bone in his body. Of Lucius and Scortilla he was uncertain.

  Lotus flowers floated in the impluvium and a couple of fat carp could be seen gulping at the surface. There was no sign of the carnivorous lampreys which, it was rumored, Verpa fed his unlucky slaves to. Still, one never knew. The man had a sinister reputation.

  “What about Verpa’s papers? I’d better have a look around the tablinum.”

  “Already done, sir. Two men from the prefect’s office were here at the crack of dawn and left with a bushel basket of stuff.”

  “I see.” But he didn’t see. If the investigation had been given to him, why were things being done behind his back?

  At that moment Lucius Ingentius Verpa shuffled into their presence, sleepy-eyed and unshaven. He looked like a man who had spent the night drinking and dicing, which, in fact, he had. The last of his friends had shuffled off at day break and he had thrown himself on his bed still in his clothes. He was in no mood to be awakened at this ungodly hour, whatever it was.

  Pliny guessed he was in his late twenties and thought he could see the father’s dissoluteness in him but nothing of the old ma
n’s thrusting, bullying energy. He took an instant dislike to him.

  It seemed to be reciprocated. Lucius glared in open hostility and acknowledged Pliny with a sullen nod. As custom required, they gripped forearms; Lucius’ grip was as weak as a girl’s. There followed an uncomfortable silence.

  “Yes, well,” said Pliny finally, “let’s have a look at the body.”

  “Not possible,” Lucius said. “It’s gone to the embalmer’s. There’s to be a funeral according to the rites of Isis—mummification and all that rigmarole. Scortilla’s idea, not mine.”

  “I see. Well I’ll have a look at the bedroom anyway.” He resumed his frown of authority. “Come along, centurion. You’ve seen the room already, I suppose.”

  “Oh, yes sir.” Valens’ eyes glinted with amusement. “All the lads have seen it.”

  With a shrug, Lucius led them through a series of public chambers off the atrium which brought them to the east wing of the house and a grand staircase that led to an upper story. Along the way they passed columns and walls in every hue of the rainbow. Fine old mosaics covered the floors, and painted vistas seemed to make the walls dissolve. Verpa had amassed Corinthian bronze vases and massive candelabra, marble statuettes on onyx pedestals, and bric-a-brac of jasper and agate. Here priceless citrus-wood tables stood on spindly ivory legs, there water tinkled in silver fountains.

  Pliny, whose own house was not nearly so grand, was impressed in spite of himself. The stairway led up to a second story gallery that ran the length of the house, its tessellated floor glittering like glass.