Empire (60 page)

He stopped whistling when he saw the Praetorians who loitered around the little reservoir called the Lake of Orpheus. The soldiers were armed and in uniform but appeared to be off duty. One of them had climbed amid the bronze statues in the fountain and was leaning against a deer that stood enraptured, ears pricked up to listen to Orpheus play his lyre.

What were Praetorians doing in this mostly residential area, with its mix of elegant homes, like that of Epaphroditus, and more modest but still respectable dwellings, like the little house Lucius kept? The sight of armed men was disturbing. He almost turned back, then thought of Cornelia, patiently waiting for him. He continued up a winding, narrow street. After a sharp turn, he saw the front of his house.

The door was wide open.

He turned around. The soldiers he had seen at the Lake of Orpheus had followed him. The foremost of them looked him in the eye. The man’s expression was dispassionate but determined. With a nod and a slight gesture of his hand, the Praetorian made it clear that Lucius was to enter the house.

He passed through the vestibule and entered into the room beyond. Someone was sitting on the couch where he had expected to find Cornelia. The room was dim; it took his eyes a moment to adjust. The man on the couch was dressed like a member of the imperial court, in a lavishly embroidered robe with long sleeves. He wore a necklace with large pieces of carnelian and a ring of the same red stone on one finger. He turned to face Lucius, but there was a disconcerting blankness about his eyes, which seemed to fix on nothing. His face was gaunt. His skin was pale and mottled.

“Are you Lucius Pinarius?” the man said.

“I am.”

“My name is also Lucius. I am Lucius Valerius Catullus Messalinus. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

“Perhaps.”

“Do I hear a quaver in your voice, Lucius Pinarius?”

There appeared to be no one in the room but the two of them. From a shadow on the wall Lucius could see that one of the Praetorians had followed him into the house and was standing in the vestibule.

“Your presence honors me, Catullus.”

Catullus laughed. “How polite you are, Pinarius! Decorum would have me now say something complimentary about your home, but alas, I cannot see it. My other senses are quite sensitive, however. Do I smell, very faintly, a woman’s perfume in this room? Or do I only imagine it?”

“There’s no woman here, Catullus.”

“No? And yet, I can almost feel her presence.”

In the silence that followed, the items in the cloth bag made a slight rustling sound.

“What’s that you carry?” said Catullus.

“Only a bit of food. May I offer you some, Catullus?”

Catullus laughed. “Oh, no, I never eat anything not prepared by my own cook, or that of the emperor, and tasted first by a slave. Such essential precautions are one of the drawbacks of my station in life. I would advise you not to eat any of that food, either.”

“Why not?”

“Why spoil your appetite, when shortly you shall be dining in the House of the Flavians?”

“I will?” Lucius’s voice cracked like that of a boy.

“That’s why I’m here, Lucius Pinarius. To deliver an invitation from our Master and God. You are invited to dine with him. A sedan is waiting outside.”

Lucius swallowed. “I’m not properly dressed. I’ll need to go home first, to change into my best toga—”

“No need. The emperor will provide your clothing.”

“He will?”

“This is to be a special dinner, requiring special dress. You need bring nothing. Shall we be off?”

Lucius looked around the room. Where was Cornelia? Had she arrived before him, seen the Praetorians, and left? Had she not come at all? Or—he could hardly bear the thought—had she been here when Catullus arrived?

Catullus called to the Praetorian, who assisted him as they stepped outside the house. Lucius pulled the door closed and produced his key.

“What are you doing?” said Catullus.

“Locking the door.”

Catullus shrugged. “If you wish.”

It seemed to Lucius that his meaning was clear: there was little need to lock a house to which a man would never return.

He was carried through the streets in a sedan that seated only himself. He made no attempt to converse with Catullus, who had his own sedan and was carried sometimes alongside him, sometimes in front, depending on the width of the street. Lucius found himself thinking of stories he had heard regarding the cruel games Domitian played with his victims, disarming them with gifts and tokens of friendship before subjecting them to hideous tortures. His favorite interrogation technique was to burn the genitals of his victims. His favorite punishment, short of death, was to cut off their hands.

The shortest route to the palace would have taken them close by the Flavian Amphitheater and the Colossus. Instead, they went through the Forum, passing by the House of the Vestals and the Temple of Vesta. Was this done deliberately to unnerve him? Surely it was, for when they at last ascended the Palatine, the bearers passed directly by Lucius’s house. Catullus had to know exactly where they were; as they passed by the house, his sedan fell back alongside that of Lucius, and Catullus turned turn his head to Lucius and smiled, as if to taunt him with a final glimpse of his home.

The sedans deposited them at one of the entrances to the imperial palace. The reception chamber to which they were led, with its soaring ceiling, was grander than any room Lucius had ever seen before. Even the most ornately decorated temples could not compare with the opulence of the place, which was perhaps best seen at this hour of the day. The last of the fading sunlight from the high windows still lit the far corners, revealing the sheer scale and the astounding attention to detail, while a multitude of newly lit lamps gave a lustrous gleam to the polished surfaces of marble and bronze and caused the monumental statue of Domitian at the center of the chamber, covered with silver and gold, to sparkle with points of fiery light.

From the reception room they were shown through a series of equally
opulent but increasingly smaller chambers, until Lucius found himself walking in single file behind Catullus, with a Praetorian directly behind him, through a narrow hallway faced with dark green marble on all sides; even the low ceiling was made of the same marble. If any daylight remained, it could not penetrate here; the way was lit only by feeble lamps set far apart in the walls. Lucius had the sense of having gone under ground, though they had descended no steps. He felt as if he were entering the tomb of some ancient king. The air grew stale and thin. He found it difficult to breathe.

Lucius was shown to a small side chamber, faced all around with the same dark green marble and lit by a single lamp, and was left alone to change his clothes. The garment laid out for him was a robe with long sleeves, not unlike the one Catullus was wearing, but solid black; even the embroidery around the hems was black. Reluctantly, Lucius took off his bright tunic, laid it aside, and picked up the robe. Then he gave a start and let out a stifled cry.

From nowhere, a boy had appeared. He was wearing black and had black hair, and his skin had been painted black as well. In the dimness of the room, Lucius had not seen the boy until he suddenly stepped forward, like an apparition from a nightmare.

“I am to be your cupbearer tonight, Master,” said the boy, taking the robe from Lucius. “Allow me to help you dress, Master.”

Dumbfounded, Lucius allowed the boy to help him put on the black robe. Then the boy took him by the hand and pushed against a spot on the marble wall. A door opened as if by magic, and the boy led him through.

Lucius found himself in a room without color. Every surface was black. The floor and the walls were of solid black marble. The small tables set about the room were made of black metal, as were the lamps, which emitted only the faintest light. The four dining couches gathered in a square were made of ebony and strewn with black pillows. One of the couches was larger and more ornate than the others.

Lucius detected a movement from the corner of his eye. He thought he had seen a door open in one of the black marble walls, but since no light was admitted from whatever room lay beyond, he was not sure until a figure entered, dressed like himself in black and led by a boy painted black. It was Catullus. Without a word, the man stood before the dining couch
opposite the larger couch. He made a gesture to indicate that Lucius should stand before the couch to his right.

Another figure emerged from the doorway, led by another boy. Lucius let out a gasp that echoed sharply in the small room.

It was Cornelia.

She was dressed in a linen gown and a suffibulum headdress, much like the vestments she normally wore, except that these were solid black.

Their eyes met. The fear on her face mirrored his own. She raised a hand toward him; her fingers trembled. The gesture was a plea for help. Neither of them spoke, conscious of the blind Catullus, who indicated with a nod that Cornelia should stand before the couch to his left.

By the dim light, Lucius saw an upright stone marker leaning against the wall behind Cornelia’s couch. Letters were engraved on the stone, but he could not make them out. He looked over his shoulder and saw that a similar stone marker was behind his own couch. The decorative engraving and the general shape were those of a grave marker. Chiseled into the stone was his own name.

Lucius saw spots before his eyes. The room seemed to sway and pitch. He thought he might fall, and looked for a way to steady himself. The cupbearer sensed his distress and took his hand. Lucius leaned against the boy, feeling faint and dizzy.

He was in such distress that he did not realize Domitian had entered the room until he saw the emperor half sitting, half reclining on the couch of honor. At first glance, the emperor appeared to be dressed in black, like everyone else, but on closer inspection Lucius saw that Domitian’s robes were of a purple so dark as to be very nearly black, decorated with embroidery in the darkest possible shade of red. On his head he wore a black laurel wreath. The lamps cast their light in such a way that his eyes were hidden by deep shadows and could not be seen.

Attending the emperor was the small-headed creature who accompanied him at the games. The creature’s face was oddly shaped and his features were wizened. Even seeing him so closely, Lucius could not tell if he was a child or a dwarf. Like the other cupbearers, he was painted entirely black.

Lucius realized that Catullus was reclining as well, and so was Cornelia, and everyone in the room was staring at him. Had he lost consciousness
for a moment? His cupbearer hissed at him. The boy tugged his hand, urging him to sit.

Lucius lowered himself onto the couch. The cupbearer made a great fuss of fluffing pillows and arranging them for his comfort. A first course of black olives was served, along with crusts of a moist, black bread sprinkled with black poppy seeds. Wine was poured for him. In the cup, the wine looked pitch-black.

Meanwhile, in the space between the four couches, a group of young male dancers, painted black like the serving boys and wearing very little, performed a dance. The music was funereal, all shrill pipes and rattles. Lucius had no idea where it came from. The musicians were nowhere to be seen.

The dance seemed interminable. Lucius saw that Catullus was eating, but he himself had no appetite, and neither, he noticed, did Cornelia. Amid so much darkness, her face looked very pale. Nor did Domitian eat. He watched the dancers.

At last, with a wild trilling of pipes and a final flourish of rattles, the performance ended and the dancers dispersed. They seemed to vanish into the walls.

“An interesting fact, about funerals,” said Domitian. He stared straight ahead. “In the old days, all funerals were performed at night, even those of great men. Nowadays, only the poor are buried at night, because they can afford no funeral procession. Funeral processions, in my view, are overrated, if only because they are all alike. First come the musicians, alerting everyone to the coming event, then the mourning women, usually hired, then the players and buffoons who imitate the deceased. Then come the slaves he freed, showing gratitude with tears and laments for their late master, and then the players who wear the wax masks of his ancestors, as if the dead have come back to life to welcome their descendant into their ranks. And then comes the dead man himself, carried on a bier on the shoulders of his nearest relatives, so that everyone can have a final look before he’s laid on a pyre and burned. People throw all sorts of things on the fire—the dead man’s clothes, his favorite foods, his most beloved books. Someone makes a speech. And when it’s all over, the ashes are scooped up and put in a stone sarcophagus.

“Another interesting fact: in the old days, our ancestors didn’t burn the
bodies of the dead, but buried them intact. I’m told that the Christians favor this type of burial even today; they place some value on the corpse itself, expecting it to come back to life. But who would wish to come back to life after the body has begun to rot, especially to find oneself trapped in a stone box or buried under ground? Like most of the far-fetched ideas of the Christians, this one seems rather poorly thought out. We Romans no longer practice burial—except in the very special case of the inhumation of a Vestal guilty of breaking her vow of chastity. But in that event, the burial is not of a dead body, but of a body while it still breathes.”

Catullus nodded. “That is the ancient penalty. But I recall that Caesar in his wisdom allowed a less severe punishment when the Oculata sisters and Varronilla were condemned a few years ago.”

“I have been having second thoughts about that decision,” said Domitian. “It is seldom advisable to abandon the wisdom of our ancestors. It was King Numa, the successor to Romulus, who founded the order of Vestals in Roma. The punishment he decreed for an errant Vestal was death by stoning.”

“Is that a fact?” Catullus chewed an olive and spat the pit into the waiting palm of his cupbearer. “I never knew that.”

“It was a later king, Tarquinius Priscus, who devised the penalty of death by inhumation. His argument was religious. ‘Let no mortal kill a priestess of Vesta,’ he declared. ‘Let that decision be left to Vesta herself.’ So the Vestal is alive when she’s placed in that little vault under ground, and then the vault is sealed and the opening is covered over with dirt. No man commits the act of killing her, and she is given nothing with which she might commit the act herself. Time and the judgment of Vesta take care of her. I have been thinking that Tarquinius Priscus showed great wisdom in this matter, even exceeding that of Numa.”