We crossed the street to the taberna, actually an inn with a few rooms for rent upstairs. The timbers of its ceiling were as smoke-stained as the one described by Horace. The paintings on the walls were no longer discernible. The room boasted six tables, four of them occupied. Our servants got up to give us the table where they had been sitting and moved to a bench at the side of the room. We ordered water to wash our hands, drinks and bread, all of which were brought quickly.
The heads of every man in the room turned when a man and a woman came down the stairs. The woman I didn’t know, but the man was Licinius Strabo, the younger of the duovirs, dressed in a dark green dinner gown with a gold border. He patted the woman’s bottom, gave her a kiss and sent her on her way. Then, walking unsteadily and adjusting his garment, he approached our table.
“Gaius Pliny, welcome to our humble establishment. You never did introduce us to your friend this morning.” His right eye seemed to have a mind of its own, wandering from me to Tacitus as though it was as drunk as Strabo himself.
“This is Cornelius Tacitus. We just came up here to bathe and get a bite to eat.”
“Tacitus? Julius Agricola’s son-in-law? No wonder Pliny didn’t want to introduce you.” He clearly didn’t know how loud his voice was, as is often true of men when they’re drunk.
Tacitus stood and Strabo stepped back, steadying himself on a chair at the next table. Tacitus can be imposing when he draws himself up to his full height. “Sir,” he said, “my father-in-law has retired after long and honorable service to Rome. I am proud to have my name linked to his.”
“Better you than me,” Strabo muttered. “Pliny, my friend, have you found that man you were looking for yet?”
“We’ve been given some helpful information.”
Strabo waited for me to say more. When I didn’t, he lurched toward the door. We heard him vomiting out in the street.
Tacitus resumed his seat.
“As soon as we get home,” I said, “I’ll send someone to Rome to find out about Aristeas’ visit to my house there. He must have spoken with Demetrius.” The steward of my house in Rome was the most trustworthy servant in any of my households. “I’m sure we can get a good report.”
“Why wait?” Tacitus asked. “Send a couple of the men we brought along with us. They could be there by nightfall and back here by tomorrow afternoon.
I summoned one of my servants and Tacitus called one of his over to our table. After I had given them instructions and the copy of my announcement which had been posted in the taberna, we bought food and wine for them to carry along.
As they turned to leave, I reiterated, “Tell Demetrius I want to know every word that man said, what he looked like, what he was wearing, who was with him—everything, no matter how seemingly insignificant. And don’t spare the horses. Demetrius can get you fresh ones.”
“Yes, my lord,” they both said. I waved them on their way.
“Why would he have gone to my house in Rome?” I muttered as I turned back to the table.
“He was looking for you.”
“But why? What does he want from me?”
“He’s the only one who can answer that question.” Tacitus signaled the serving girl for more wine. She leaned against him more than she needed to as she poured it.
“There’s a crime—or the possibility of one—involved,” I said in Greek. “I’ll wager that.”
Tacitus rolled his eyes. “You and your paranoia. Do you think Regulus is behind it, like you always do?”
“Isn’t he usually?”
“But how could Aristeas have any connection to Regulus?”
“Regulus’ web spreads everywhere, even into my own house. You know that. If Aristeas came to the door of my house in Rome, Regulus knows about it, if he didn’t send him in the first place.”
“You sound like a latrunculi player who’s making his opponent’s moves seem more important than they are. I thought you were a better player than that. You’re going to box yourself in if you’re not careful.”
Tacitus has never beaten me at the game, but his warning gave me something to think about. “I grant you, it seems a bit far-fetched to imagine he has a connection with Aristeas. I won’t dismiss the possibility, though.”
Tacitus shook his head. “If Aristeas is acting on his own, and I think he is, what could he be trying to accomplish by lying down in your woods? What does he want?”
“If you think about it—and I have been lately—most crimes are committed for a very limited number of reasons. Someone wants to gain money, to attain power or to keep it, to exact vengeance, or because of sex—either attraction to another person or jealousy because one cannot have that person.”
Tacitus thought for a moment, then nodded. “I can’t argue with what you’re saying. In fact, I can provide examples. Achilles killed Hector to avenge Patroclus’ death. The Ides of March was motivated by desire for power. The list of men who’ve been killed for their wealth would stretch from here to Rome.”
I sipped my wine and nodded. “Whether they were murdered by some thug in an alley or by a thug like Sulla. So what does Aristeas want?”
“Not meaning to offend, but I doubt that he wants sex from you.”
I drew back in revulsion. “Oh, that’s certain.”
“And power comes from only one man in Rome.”
I nodded. “So that means he’s out for revenge or money. I don’t know what I could have done to him that he would be seeking revenge. I’ve never heard of the man.”
“Could your uncle have done something to him or his family?”
“I’ll have to ask some of the older servants if they know of anything. With his military and government service, my uncle must have hurt people along the way.”
Tacitus raised his cup in a toast. “Perhaps we should hope he’s just after money.”
“That’s the most likely motive in my view. He and Apollodoros have gone to a great deal of trouble to concoct some sort of plot. It was no coincidence that they both appeared on my land.”
“Does a plot necessarily mean a crime?”
“I suppose, if you plot to persuade someone to give you money—or buy you some cheese—it’s not a crime if they fall for it.”
“And you’re afraid your mother will?”
“Yes. Before that can happen I’m going to find out what Aristeas and Apollodoros are up to. At least there’s no murder involved in this mystery.”
Tacitus held a piece of bread at his mouth and looked at me over it. “At times, Gaius Pliny, I find you a mystery I cannot fathom.”
“Why do you say that? I think I’m very much like other men.”
“No, my friend, you’re not. For example, why would you pay a woman for not lying with you?”
“Maybe because she was kind to my uncle.”
“And got paid well for it, I’m sure.”
I tore off a piece of bread and shoved it in my mouth so I wouldn’t have to reply to him. My uncle had certainly been generous to his mistress, Monica, much to my mother’s dismay, so I imagine he rewarded Myrrha and Chloris well, too, for their services. I didn’t think I could explain to a man like Tacitus—and I’ve observed that most men are like Tacitus—why I could not abide the thought of those drunken louts pawing Chloris. Even if I knew they would come back tomorrow, I didn’t want them thrusting themselves into her when I was so close and knew what was going on. By this time tomorrow I might be busy enough, and far enough away, not to think about it, but right now the very idea sickened me.
The first woman I ever lay with, while nowhere as beautiful as Chloris, left me with an abiding sense of how precious a woman should be to a man and a yearning to experience that closeness again—not just a quick, furious coupling. I don’t claim to be a moral exemplar, and I don’t condemn other men for regarding women the way they do. I don’t fully understand my own attitude, or theirs.
I was fifteen, spending a month that summer on the estate of Verginius Rufus, a friend of m
y uncle’s and an estimable man who had almost as much influence on me as my uncle did. His niece, Terentia, who had just turned sixteen, came to visit while I was there. We had met on two occasions before that, but not for almost two years. I knew Verginius and my uncle had discussed the possibility of a marriage between Terentia and me. By her age, most girls would have been married, but both families were waiting for me to shave my first beard and put on my toga virilis. Our betrothal was announced just before her visit. Since we had met only twice before, we were supposed to spend that month getting acquainted.
Terentia proved to be a lively girl, with a quick laugh. I felt comfortable with her from the very beginning. The top of her head came up to my nose, and she was slender with ink-black hair and eyes almost as dark. She did not have a particularly robust constitution and seemed to be always thirsty, a trait I did not recall from our earlier meetings. We spent most of our time talking and reading in Verginius’ garden. She introduced me to poets such as Catullus and Cornelius Gallus, whose work I had never read. Her favorite, though, was Tibullus, because included in his books were poems by a sixteen-year-old girl named Sulpicia. After a few days Terentia grew brave enough to show me some poetry she had written. That emboldened me to sing her a song I had composed, accompanying myself on the lyre.
One hot afternoon I was lying in my room after lunch. The shutters were closed, so the light was subdued, more like that of dawn or evening than midday. I heard one soft tap on my door, then it eased open just wide enough for Terentia to slip in. She crossed the small room in two steps. I sat up on the edge of the bed and she stood in front of me. Without a word being spoken, she unpinned her silky hair and shook it out. Then she unfastened the brooches on each shoulder of her gown. I realized she was acting out the poem of Ovid’s that we had read that morning, when his lover Corinna comes to his room, so I tugged at the gown. As Ovid says, she put up a pro forma resistance.
She put her arms at her sides and shivered, but she couldn’t have been cold. I took her in my arms and we lay down. I realize now that I was inept and bumbling. At the time all I knew was how much I wanted her and how aware I was of her beauty and her fragility.
We managed to find several other occasions to be alone during that month. My experience with her left me feeling that any woman should be treated as more of a goddess than a whore. It’s not their nature to be whores; it’s our disregard for them that reduces them to that level.
Even now I wonder how different my life would have been if Terentia had not died of some undetermined illness early in the next year. The doctors stood by, helpless, as she wasted away.
“Can I do anything else for you gents?” The serving girl’s voice got my attention, like a whip cracked over a mule’s head. She giggled as Tacitus slipped his hand up under her gown. “Now, sir, that’s not on the menu.” Leaning over, she whispered, “But we can make arrangements, for special customers. In back, in the room next to the latrine.”
As Tacitus got up to follow her, he said, “She’s no Chloris, but ...”
The ride back to my villa seemed longer than the ride up to Laurentum, probably because Tacitus wouldn’t stop talking about his time with the serving girl. It seems she was especially limber. I tried not to listen, but the two servants riding with us were greatly amused, and Tacitus loves an appreciative audience.
The sun had slipped below the horizon when we turned off the main road onto the lane that led to my house.
“I hope Apollodoros isn’t lord and master of the place by now,” I said as the roof of one of my outbuildings came into view.
“He was well on his way when we left,” Tacitus said.
Before I could respond, a bat swooped over our heads, coming from behind us. “That cursed thing is back,” I muttered.
“At least it’s still just one,” Tacitus said.
“If it’s the same one. Where did it go?”
“It stopped in that tree, my lord, on the left,” one of the servants said, pointing ahead of us. “Biggest one I’ve ever seen.”
In the twilight the new leaves seemed more gray than green. My eyes are very sensitive to bright sunlight, but in this softer light I could make out a form hanging, head down, from a branch high in one of the trees. The creature stretched its wings and then folded them, as though embracing itself. It did not stir as we passed under the tree where it had come to roost, if that’s the proper term for what a bat does.
A few moments later we came within sight of the house. “Everything seems in order,” Tacitus said as we drew our horses to a stop at the paddock and dismounted. “There’s no bacchanal going on out here—no satyrs chasing nymphs through your garden.”
Tranio emerged from one of the stalls, wiping his hands on his tunic. “Welcome home, my lord.” He spotted the sacks draped over one of the servants’ horses. “You stopped at Saturninus’ shop, I see.”
“Yes. There’ll be no shortage of cheese in our house any time soon. Is everything all right here?”
He seemed surprised by my question. “Certainly, my lord.”
“Do you know where my mother is?”
“She’s in the triclinium, my lord, entertainin’ that fella you found in the woods today. Or at least feedin’ him. I think he’s providin’ the entertainment.”
Something about the way Tranio said that made me uneasy. Leaving the servants to care for the horses and take the cheese to the kitchen, Tacitus and I hurried into the house. In the atrium Naomi got up from the bench where she was sitting and took a step toward us, with her hands clasped in front of her.
“My lord, may I speak with you?”
I could hear the voices of a few women and one man, joined in a song, coming from the triclinium. “Can’t this wait?”
“I’m worried about your mother, my lord.” Her face was more somber and gray than usual.
That, of course, brought me to a halt. “Worried? Why?”
“It’s this man, Apollodoros, my lord. I think he’s having an ... an unwholesome effect on her. And on many of the other women in the house, for that matter.”
“But not on you?”
“He frightens me, my lord. I don’t understand what he wants, or why he’s here.”
At least I had one ally, the last person I would have expected to be on my side, a woman whose influence on my mother struck me as baleful. “Has Mother offered to give him anything?”
“Not that I’ve heard, my lord.”
“Thank you, Naomi. I have the same concerns. You can be with my mother at times and places where I can’t be. Please let me know about anything else that worries you.”
Instead of being stuck off to one side of the house, as a triclinium usually is, the one in this house overlooks the bay. It has folding doors and windows which can be opened to admit a breeze off the water on fine days. When they are open, diners have a view of the sea on three sides and, on the other side, a view through the inner court of the house all the way out into the woods and the hills.
Tacitus and I went into the triclinium together, causing the singing to break off as soon as we entered the room. My mother was reclining on the high couch, in the host’s position. She signaled for Naomi to recline next to her. Apollodoros occupied the guest of honor’s spot on the middle couch. He was sitting up so he could play the lyre—my lyre. Some of the freedwomen in our household occupied the other places on the couches, while servant women stood behind them or sat on the floor.
“Gaius, dear!” my mother said. “Don’t spoil the party. Come, join us.” She waved the freedwomen off the low couch across the table from her. “There’s plenty of food. We’ve been so enthralled by Apollodoros’ songs, we haven’t eaten much.”
We took our places on the couch and two of the servant women unfastened our sandals and washed our feet. After our excursion through the alley beside Saturninus’ shop, that was more than just a courtesy.
“What sort of songs?” I asked.
“Songs his mother taught him,” my mothe
r said. “He’s teaching us one about the moon over the Ganges.”
“That’s a river in India,” Naomi informed me.
Mother beamed at Apollodoros. “Why don’t you give my son a sample?”
Apollodoros bowed his head to acknowledge her request. “My mother brought many songs with her when she came from India with her family. I’ve heard her sing them since I was a babe at her breast. I did have to retune your lyre a bit, sir. Indian music uses a different scale than you Greeks and Romans.”
That lyre had been a gift to me from Verginius Rufus. “I can correct that when you’re done with it.” I didn’t try to conceal my annoyance.
Adjusting one of the strings, he began to sing in what must have been his mother’s native language. Even as determined as I was not to like it, I could sense its inherent charm. The melody rose and fell like nothing I’d ever heard in Greek or Roman music. And Apollodoros’ voice—which seemed to be the gift of Apollo that his name implied—matched the beatific expression on his face. When he finished the song, every woman in the room sighed.
Apollodoros reached across the table, offering the lyre to me. “I understand you sing and play yourself, Gaius Pliny. Will you favor us with a song?”
I pushed the instrument away. “I’d rather not play Marsyas to your divine namesake. It was the Muses” —I gestured to the women around me. —“who decided the contest between Marsyas and Apollo.”
He laughed as though he was utterly at peace. “I doubt these ladies would condemn you.”
“From what I’ve seen, I doubt that my own mother would prefer my songs to yours.”
“The noble Plinia would never render an unfair judgment, I’m sure. Please, play us a song. Even if the ladies prefer my music, I’m not going to skin you alive.”
The women dared to laugh at the reference to Marsyas’ fate, but his smile, with just a flicker of something sinister in it, frightened me. I stood up from the couch. “Now you’re baiting me. I won’t be treated that way in my own house. Because it’s so late, you may stay the night. At dawn we’ll give you supplies and send you on your way to ... wherever you’re going.”I didn’t mention Metapontum because I didn’t want to alert him that we knew anything about what he might be up to.
The Corpus Conundrum Page 9
