The Blood of Caesar, page 25
part #2 of Pliny the Younger Series
“How could you?” Suddenly I was having trouble breathing. If a couple of women could identify it, who else might?
“We made it, dear.”Mother put her hand on my arm. “We sewed the stripe on it. How could we not know it? When Naomi saw a bloodstained knife on the table, she feared the worst. She’s a much more clever woman than you realize. She slipped the knife under her clothing and, when the soldier came to search her room, she pretended to be in her monthly. You saw that.”
“Yes. It was clever. No man would touch her in that condition.”
“She got the idea, she told me, from a story in one of the Jewish holy books.”
“They must be strange holy books, indeed, that tell stories about women and their monthlies.”
“They’re different from anything I’ve ever read, but quite charming in their own way.”
“You’ve read them, too?”
“Yes, dear. I’m sure Naomi would be happy to have you read them as well.”
“You know what I think of gods and myths, Mother. Where is that knife now?”
“We scrubbed it completely clean and put it back in the kitchen. No one will ever know.”
As grateful as I was, I wished they had buried the accursed thing or dropped it into a sewer. Now every time I cut a piece of bread or cheese, I would wonder if I was using the knife I had plunged into the Cyclops’ throat.
XVI
MY UNCLE ALWAYS chided me for preferring to walk rather than ride in a litter. He rode everywhere he went, with a reader constantly at his side so he could make good use of time spent in travel. His excessive girth and his breathing problems made walking difficult for him, but I’ve sometimes wondered whether his health might have been better if he had walked more. I always feel invigorated when I walk. But, if my uncle had walked, he might not have accomplished as much in his studies and his writing.
For our trip to Tacitus’ house Demetrius had prepared my largest litter and picked out a few extra slaves to carry it and clear a path for us. Naomi and Chloe were chosen to attend to Nelia. I told them to walk right behind the litter, in its wake, so to speak.
“Can’t Naomi ride with us?” Nelia asked. “She is old enough that I worry about her walking.”
“She was quite capable of walking to her brother’s grave a few days ago, and that was a round trip of four miles.”
“Cousin Gaius says it’s not fair to the servants to make them walk when we ride.”
“Would it be fair to the slaves carrying the litter to add the weight of another person?” She had no answer to that, so we set out.
The advantage to walking, accompanied by just a few slaves or clients, is that you can, like an experienced legion, shift your formation to meet conditions on the battlefields which Rome’s streets often become. You can slip through a narrow opening in the crowd or detour at the last moment down a side street. Riding in a large litter, carried and surrounded by a dozen or more slaves, is like being on a lumbering trireme. Your maneuverability is limited and you have to stay in deep water.
Still, given our concerns about Nelia’s condition and given how crowded the streets would be in the late afternoon and taking into account the threat of rain, the litter was our best choice. Laberius and a couple of my burlier slaves would provide extra protection. I didn’t particularly want Laberius along, but he was determined not to let Nelia out of his sight.
As we settled into our places in the litter, facing one another, a dirty-faced boy of about ten ran up to us, his outstretched hand holding a wax tablet. “For the lady Cornelia,” he said.
Nelia took the tablet and I gave the boy a denarius. He stepped away from the litter but did not leave, in case there was a reply to be delivered.
Breaking the seal, Nelia opened the tablet and read it silently. Then she turned to the boy and shook her head. “There will be no reply.”
Disappointed, the boy turned and ran away.
Nelia turned back to me. “It’s from Marcianus. He wants to see me again.”
“I didn’t ask,” I said.
“But I want you to know. He says if there is no reply to the message, he will know that we have no future together.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Yes, I am.” She tossed the tablet into the corner of the litter. “Can we leave the curtains open? I want to see everything.” The girlish enthusiasm in her voice sounded genuine, and I recalled my mother’s description of her as a naïve stranger from far away. But I still didn’t trust her.
“Does ‘everything’ include the beggars and prostitutes and the garbage in the streets?”
“My, you are a cynic, aren’t you, Gaius Pliny? Rome is the biggest city in the world. When people say ‘The City’ they mean only one place. I want to see it, to feel it. All of it.”
“So you shall then.” I signaled for the servants to tie the curtains back. That meant the scented cloths we hung inside the litter to mask the odors of the street would be of no use. But Nelia wanted to see and feel all of it.
“Thank you.” Nelia’s expression of gratitude turned to a shriek as the litter-carriers lifted us. I had heard Aeolus, their leader, give the command and was bracing myself, but Nelia hadn’t known what was about to happen. Out of a childish sort of spite, I hadn’t warned her.
Being lifted in a litter can be a shock. The motion is sudden and rarely smooth. The litter tilts and sways until the carriers get it settled and get in step with one another. They sometimes stagger under the weight, especially of a litter as large as this one. People have been known to topple out if they’re not ready and if the carriers are particularly clumsy.
Our route took us past the Temple of Minerva, the public building closest to my house. Like most Roman temples, it reminds me of a box in which the divinity is sealed up, whether for her protection or ours I’m never quite sure. To avoid a treacherous descent straight down the hill, Aeolus made several turns, first right, then left, as though we were going down a staircase.
“These are all homes,” I pointed out to Nelia, “mostly apartment houses.”
“They’re huge!” She leaned out of the litter and gawked at the four- and five-story buildings which covered an entire block and kept the narrower streets in shadow except at midday.
On the lower part of the Esquiline the streets became crowded and the beggars aggressive. My slaves were pushed up against the sides of the litter as they defended us against the onslaught. Even the battle-hardened Laberius had trouble keeping his feet under him.
“Can’t we give them something?” Nelia asked. “Wouldn’t that make them go away?”
“Just the opposite. It would be like cutting your leg and holding it out in front of a pack of ravenous wolves. We would be mobbed and devoured.”
“But they’re poor and hungry, and you have so much. Cousin Gaius says it’s immoral for a few people to be so wealthy and the rest so poor.”
“Oh, has Musonius sold his house in the city and the estate where you grew up? Has he given up his equestrian stripe?”
She pouted. “Are you saying he’s a hypocrite?”
“My dealings with him the last few days have made me re-evaluate Musonius’ teachings about a number of things. Let’s just leave it at that.”
We turned right on the Via Tusculana. As we turned, Nelia caught her first glimpse of the Flavian Amphitheater looming over and dwarfing everything around it.
“Great Jupiter!” she muttered. “Cousin Gaius said it was gigantic, but I could never have imagined ...”
“Some people have nicknamed it the Colosseum,” I said, “because it’s so ... well, colossal. Domitian isn’t happy about that. He wants his family’s name attached to it.”
As we drew nearer the Amphitheater Nelia shook her head. “It’s unbelievable, incomprehensible. Almost frightening.”
“You said you wanted to see everything.”
“How do you live here? How do you breathe?”
“You sound like the country mouse in Horace’s fable.”
“That’s how I feel. Everything here is so overwhelming. Part of me wants to run away.”
“You have to get used to it. Some part of you has to go numb. The Amphitheater is still new to all of us, remember. It was completed only two years ago.”
“What’s it like inside?”
“I’ve never been in it.”
She looked at me in disbelief. “I thought everyone in Rome except cousin Gaius attended the games.”
“It feels that way. Tacitus adores the games. I don’t like the bloodshed, the frenzy of the crowd. I’m sure I’ll have to attend something there some day, as a favor to a friend, but I’m in no hurry. Now, over here is the Temple of the Deified Claudius.” I pointed to the structure—large enough in its own right—on the other side of the street.
“Oh, yes,” Nelia said. “Agrippina marries her uncle, poisons him, then has him declared a god. She’s the most heartless women I’ve ever read about.”
“But you admired her mother, the elder Agrippina. Defending the bridge and all that.”
“Saving your husband is heroic. Marrying your uncle and poisoning him is despicable.”
We made another turn and passed by the southeast end of the Palatine. “Some people think it’s worth any price,” I said, “to live on top of this hill.”
“Would you want to be princeps, Gaius Pl—?”
I clapped my hand over her mouth. “Don’t ever say such a thing in Rome!” I whispered. “People have been condemned for treason for even hinting at it. Do you understand?”
Her eyes bulged in fright. I was afraid she was going to bite me again, but she nodded and I removed my hand, though not before I once again felt something odd on the upper right side of her mouth.
As we passed the Circus Maximus the rain started, a dozen drops and suddenly a downpour. My litter-carriers found the footing treacherous because of the mud washing down from Domitian’s building site atop the Palatine. Much of the western side of the hill was being cut away to allow for the foundations of the princeps’ grandiose house. I closed the curtains on the litter.
“You’ll have to see the rest of everything some other time,” I said.
“Thank you for your patience with me. I know I’ve been difficult, but since I became pregnant I hardly know myself. My moods seem to change—”
She broke off as a couple of my carriers slipped in the mud. With Laberius yelling, “Watch it, you clumsy oafs!” the litter pitched to one side, rolling Nelia toward me. Instinctively I threw my arms around her. She came to rest against me. Her breasts were pressed to my chest, her face so close to mine I could feel the sweet warmth of her breath.
* * * *
Tacitus’ house sits on the southwestern side of the Aventine, near the Porta Naevia. A previous owner closed off the two front rooms of the house from the interior and rented them out as shops—to a sandalmaker and a jeweler—an arrangement Tacitus has maintained, although he says his wife spends more in those shops than he takes in as rent. Being over the crest of the hill, he isn’t much bothered by the noise from the Circus Maximus. From his upper story he has a nice view of the road to Ostia and a bit of the Tiber. At least on days when the rain isn’t coming down in a torrent.
When we arrived at the door it opened immediately and one of Tacitus’ servants motioned for my carriers to bring the litter into the vestibulum. The operation was carried out so smoothly we were barely jostled when the litter was set down.
“If it rains much harder,” a deep voice said, “you’ll find out if that thing floats.” The curtain was pulled back and I found myself face-to-face with a beaming Gnaeus Julius Agricola.
I had met Agricola only once, shortly after Tacitus and I returned from Syria and Agricola had been recalled from Britain. Much of his career had been spent on government service in one province or another. During his consulship, six years ago, I was still too young to take part in public life.
“Welcome, Gaius Pliny. It’s good to see you again.” He took my hand and helped me out of the litter. The firmness of his grip, his frank, open countenance, even the gray around his temples, all exuded confidence and command. I could understand why men would embrace him as their leader and prefer him to someone like Domitian. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Laberius snap to attention.
“It’s a pleasure to see you, sir,” I said. “I hope your time in Baiae was relaxing.”
“If boring is relaxing, then I suppose it was relaxing.” He looked over my shoulder. “Oh, you did bring her. Excellent! Tacitus wasn’t sure she’d be up to it.”
“Yes, forgive me.” I turned around and helped Nelia out of the litter. “This is the lady Cornelia, cousin of Musonius Rufus. Nelia, this is Tacitus’ father-in-law, Gnaeus Julius Agricola.”
“Welcome, lady,” Agricola said with a quick bow of his head. “Did I hear Gaius Pliny call you ... Nelia? Is that how you’re known?”
“Yes, sir. When I was a child, one of my playmates had an awful time pronouncing my name. It was easier for him just to say ‘Nelia’ and everyone else picked it up. Perhaps now that I’m in Rome, though, I should go by Cornelia.”
“No, it’s charming. And it distinguishes you from the five thousand other Cornelias in the city. Who was your father?”
“Lucius Cornelius Catulus.” She looked at me, as though wondering whether I was going to express my doubts about what Musonius had told her.
“Don’t know of him,” Agricola said, scratching his chin. “Did he hold any offices? Provincial posts?”
“I don’t believe so. Cousin Gaius told me that my family lived in Asia. My father was killed just before I was born there, and my mother died a few years later.”
“My father died just after I was born,” Agricola said, nodding his head slowly. “Caligula forced him to commit suicide.”
“How awful!” Nelia laid a gentle hand on Agricola’s arm. I could swear the old general’s eyes got misty.
Agricola regained his composure. “Born in Asia, you say? I was a quaestor in Asia. One of my first posts. That’s where my daughter was born, eighteen years ago.”
“What a remarkable coincidence that is,” Nelia said. “I’m eighteen.”
“Remarkable indeed,” Agricola said. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you standing here. Julia is eager to meet you. She’s in the triclinium, overseeing last-minute details. I offered to help, but the invasion of Britain was a minor undertaking compared to this dinner.”
Laberius took charge of my slaves and the litter. By the time Nelia, Agricola and I had crossed the atrium we could hear a young woman’s voice coming from the dining room. “No, that’s not right! Why can’t you understand what I want? Maybe a few lashes would improve your hearing. The lampstands go over there. Isn’t that right, Tacitus?”
“Yes, dear,” my friend’s weary voice replied. “I believe that’s the way they were arranged that night. I just didn’t pay any attention to lampstands.”
“Why not? Were you too busy ogling some pretty slave boy?”
Before Tacitus could respond, Agricola called out, “Julia, your guests are starting to arrive.” He stopped us at the door, like a commander wary of leading his troops into an ambush.
Julia turned and forced a smile. Her face was covered with a layer of white powder, her lips painted a bright red. She wore a rose-colored gown, belted high under her breasts, and several silver bracelets on each arm. Her reddish-brown hair had been done up in one of those high styles that made her look like she was wearing a siege tower on her head.
“Gaius Pliny! How nice to see you.” She approached me, took my hands, and brushed her cheeks against mine, making a kissing sound but never touching me with her lips. “And this must be Cornelia. I’m so glad you could come.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Nelia said, stiffening when Julia embraced her.
“What a lovely gown.” Julia stepped back and held Nelia’s hands. “And that necklace is spectacular.”
“For that I have to thank Gaius Pliny. He and his mother have been very generous to me.”
“I’m not surprised. They’re wonderful people. Now, I want you to feel perfectly at home here. You’ve met my father. This is my mother, Domitia.” Julia put her arm around a small, gray-haired woman who was straightening a coverlet draped over one of the couches.
“Welcome,” Domitia said. I had never met her before, but I knew from Tacitus’ comments that she was not the sort of meddling mother-in-law one sees in comedies. With hardly any makeup on, her features seemed sharp, birdlike. She was about five years older than my mother and had accompanied her husband on his various military postings. The hard life on Rome’s frontiers had made her wiry, unlike the soft, pampered Roman matrons I was accustomed to.
Domitia took Nelia’s arm and turned her back toward the door of the triclinium. “While my daughter is finishing the preparations for dinner, may I show you the rest of the house?”
“I would enjoy that,” Nelia said.
“And I have something to show you in the library,” Tacitus said, almost bolting for the door.
“But who’ll help me get ready for dinner?” Julia wailed. “There’s still so much to do.”
“Everything looks fine,” her mother assured her. “None of your other guests has ever been in Caesar’s triclinium, so they won’t know if some little detail isn’t right. And I’m sure Gaius Pliny is too much of a gentleman to point out anything you might have gotten wrong. Not that you have gotten anything wrong,” she added quickly.
I looked around the room. “If I didn’t know better, I would swear I was back on the Palatine.”
“Really?” Julia beamed.
“You see, dear?” Domitia said. “Everything will be fine. Your father can help you. We’ll be back shortly.”
We all let out a sigh of relief when we left Agricola fulminating and escaped from the triclinium, but none of us sighed louder than Tacitus.
“Well, Julia’s quite ... charming,” Nelia said.
Domitia waved her hand. “You don’t have to pretend on my account. I know how shallow my daughter is. If she were a stream, you could ford her without getting your ankles wet. Agricola and I did all we could do to encourage her to read when she was a child. But every time we put a book in her hands, she would pretend to get sick, sneezing and wiping her eyes. All she’s ever been interested in was clothes and gossip. I don’t know how dear Tacitus endures her. I suppose being gone on various postings makes marriage to her bearable. Either that or she’s quite remarkable in the bedroom.”
