The Bull Slayer (4 page)

Diocles, who was a former
archon
of Nicomedia and a member of the city council, was introducing Pliny now, his honeyed voice full of words like concord, harmony, honor, friendship, order. His faction cheered him wildly, as they were paid to do, but from here and there in the audience came catcalls from other factions.

Then Pliny took the rostrum and waited for silence. When he spoke it was in the careful, measured tones of the professional lawyer. His oratorical training was impeccable but he wasn’t the showman that Diocles was. His speech, carefully written and memorized, was short and to the point. Rome depended on the wealthy men in every city to make the wheels of empire turn. But if they abused their position, squandered their money, punishment would be swift. He was embarking at once on a tour of every city in the province where he would examine accounts and hold hearings. He asked for their loyalty and cooperation.

The silence, when he sat down, was deafening. Which was about what he had expected.

Diocles swept toward him, followed by his retinue: all of them prosperous, well-fed, sleek; men whom Pliny must win over if he was to accomplish anything here.

“Splendid words, Governor, inspiring! Of course, my friends and I are all behind you.” He indicated them with a jutting chin. The friends nodded and made noises of agreement. “What a relief to have things put to rights at last.”
You arrogant barbarian. You spawn of a city that was founded by wild men and robbers. You pillager of all the world, you enemy of civilization. What mischief will you make among us now?
“I look forward to entertaining you at my estate one day soon for an exchange of views. Leaving at once, are you? For Prusa? Are things there as bad as that? Yes, I quite understand. Like Atlas, you must shoulder your burden, like Hercules, you have your labors, like Theseus—well, you know what I mean. Another time, then. In the meantime what can I do to make your stay pleasanter? Nothing? Oh, surely. What? A Greek tutor for your wife? Admirable!”
Another Roman whore, who prances around the city unveiled and reclines at table with men, actually talks to them like an equal! Oh, certainly, she wants to improve her Greek the better to abuse us in our own tongue.
“Yes, I think I know just the man.”

Balbus had stood by silently during this exchange. Now he struck in. “Diocles, you should know that the governor comes with a special mandate from our emperor, overriding even my authority in fiscal matters.” The tone was surly, the Greek rough and heavily accented. “We must all look sharp, mustn’t we?”

“Oh, indeed so, Procurator,” Diocles smiled. “But honest men have nothing to fear.”

The two men held each other’s gaze for a brief moment.

***

“You know, I envy the Greeklings in a way.” Pliny said to Suetonius as they made their way back to the palace. “The fire, the excitement, the struggles for power in their little world. Like Rome was in Cicero’s day, when oratory
mattered
, when lives were at stake.”

“I suppose so,” his friend replied carefully. “But, of course, one wouldn’t wish those dangerous days back again. We’re much better off without assemblies, elections, all that— ”

“Oh, quite, I didn’t mean…”

This was dangerous ground; they let it drop.

“What did you think of my speech?” Pliny asked after a moment’s pause.

“At least they didn’t throw cushions at you.” A smile, as usual, hovered on Suetonius’ lips. He found the world a source of constant amusement.

***

From the Sun-Runner to the Father, greetings.

The Lion has asked me privately to nominate his son to be initiated into the rank of Raven. Ordinarily, I would not consider it, but I fear that the Lion—especially at this critical time—must be given what he wants. You understand my meaning.

Until the day of the Sun, nama Mithras

Chapter Five

That evening

“Daddy, mommy, look at me, I’m a chariot driver!” Rufus, red-haired, fat-cheeked and sturdy, his mouth and fingers sticky with honey cake, stood up in his goat-cart, and waved his whip. His words were a jumble of Latin and Greek, he hadn’t sorted the two languages out yet. This birthday present, from uncle Pliny, carefully hidden in the palace stable until the moment of its presentation, was the best one of all. His other new toys—a hobby horse from Suetonius, a wooden sword from old Nymphidius, a kite from Caelianus, knucklebones, a top, a hoop, carved animals, a stuffed ball, a boat—all momentarily forgotten. The goat, which had stood motionless for some time, made a sudden jump, nearly tumbling the little boy out. Ione, his mother, ran to grab him, while Zosimus, his father, fumbled with the goat’s halter.

“Gaius, he’s too young for it,” Calpurnia protested, though she was laughing.

“No, auntie ’Purnia, I’m big! I’m four! Daddy, make the goat go.” Zosimus shot a worried look at his master and mistress. His own gifts, a writing set and an alphabet book—what else would a secretary give his son?—lay unnoticed where they had been instantly dropped.

“Rufus, give the other children a turn now,” Ione said.

Caelianus’ twelve- year- old boy and Nymphidius’ eight-year-old granddaughter were looking envious. Pliny swept the boy up in his arms, swung him around, and set him down. “You know what that goat wants? I’ll bet he wants an apple. Let’s feed him, shall we?” Pliny was enjoying himself as much as little Rufus; more, if that were possible.

Suetonius, reclining at the adults’ table, surveyed this picture of domestic joy and was puzzled. Rufus was a bright and engaging little boy but he was, after all, only the son of two freed slaves. Pliny had a reputation for generosity to his slaves and freedmen, but even so, to make such a fuss over the child, putting on this party with gifts from every member of the staff as if Rufus were his own—and that was the point, wasn’t it? Pliny and Calpurnia were childless. Suetonius was childless too, but that was by choice; and he had left his wife—by their mutual consent—back in Rome. Pliny and Calpurnia were different. You only had to watch them around little Rufus. They seemed determined to be as much the boy’s parents as Zosimus and Ione.

And there was an odd pair, when you thought about it—not that Suetonius thought about it much, but you couldn’t help wondering. Zosimus was a precise, serious man of about thirty, a talented reader and musician, a more than competent secretary, who had been born a slave in the household and later freed. He was deeply loyal to Pliny, his former master, now his patron. But as a father he was ill at ease, awkward with the boy, as if he hardly knew what to do with him.

How different was Ione! She was a minx. Pretty, vivacious. Just beginning to show signs of a new pregnancy that rounded her features becomingly. She had been purchased as a girl, Suetonius gathered, and trained as a lady’s maid. It wasn’t known where she came from, probably sold by her starving parents, but Greek, of an uneducated variety, was her native tongue. She and Calpurnia were very close, more so perhaps than was proper for a mistress and her servant; always whispering together, sharing secrets like a pair of sisters. About five years ago, Pliny had freed Ione and married her to Zosimus. All rather sudden, one would have thought. And that young man couldn’t believe his good fortune. He was devoted to her—you only had to see how he gazed at her. But Ione seemed—to Suetonius’ observant eye—perhaps a little less in love with him.

No question, though, that she loved her son. Rufus had been lured away from the goat with more honey cake and now Ione was hugging him and dabbing at his face with a napkin while he squirmed. Meanwhile, the older children had usurped Rufus’ hoop and his hobby horse and were racing up and down the marbled hall with shrieks of laughter.

In the midst of this merriment, a slave appeared to announce a stranger at the door. Pliny ordered him shown in and greeted him with a smile. Which was not returned.

“And you are—?”

“Timotheus, sir. The tutor. Diocles asked me to present myself to you and your, ah, wife.” He pronounced the last words—
he gyne sou
—as if a wife were some fantastic beast in whose existence he only half believed. In Timotheus’ world wives were rarely seen, still less heard. He was a sour-faced man, fiftyish, with sharp features and watery eyes. He clutched a satchel filled with scrolls, the tools of his trade. A tired man sent to do a distasteful job.

“Yes, yes, of course! Remarkably prompt of our friend, I hadn’t expected you so soon. Do come in. My wife will be delighted to meet you. I’m sure you two will get on—yes, well—’Purnia, come here, my dear…your new tutor.”

She regarded the newcomer doubtfully with her large, dark eyes. “Delighted to meet you, sir,” she said in halting Greek. Timotheus winced at her accent.

“Sit down, Timotheus, have something to eat.” Pliny burbled. “Happy occasion this. After dinner we can discuss your fee, show you to your room. Perhaps you’ll recite something for us this evening? Some light verse? I dabble myself, you know. Here, let me introduce you to everyone—” The tutor looked as if he had just tasted something unpleasant. But Pliny seemed not to notice, he loved playing host.

Soon enough Rufus developed a stomach ache from too many honey cakes and Ione carried him off to bed. Pliny followed them with his eyes until they passed through the door. Timotheus was prevailed on to recite something from a comedy and, though he did it not nearly so well as Zosimus, Pliny was effusive in his praise. Pliny’s dinners never lasted long after sundown. The dining room emptied as families drifted off to their living quarters throughout the palace.

***

Pliny and Calpurnia lay in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, warm with love-making, the covers a tangle at the foot of the bed. Pliny inhaled her hair; he loved the smell of it.

“I wish you didn’t have to go away so soon,” she said.

“Can’t be helped. So much to do.”

“I could come with you.”

“Out of the question, my dear. We’ll be on the road day after day for a month or more. No place for a woman. Besides, I need you here.”

“Do you, really?”

“You’re the governor’s lady. I’m leaving Suetonius behind to run the office but you will represent us socially. Meet people, entertain them, just like at home. You’re wonderful at that sort of thing. You’ll do us proud, as always.”

And she would, but he never knew what it cost her. She was a matron of twenty-eight, beautiful, clever, accomplished—everyone said so—and yet the frightened fourteen-year-old bride that she had once been still trembled within her. She was a country girl, raised amid the mountains and lakes of northern Italy, who had suddenly found herself married to a man more than twice her age, a Roman senator, a lawyer, the nephew of a famous uncle, a man with important friends, the emperor’s confidante. Her mother had died giving birth to her and her father had died not long afterward, fighting on the Danube frontier. Her grandfather had raised her—how she missed that dear man!

Pliny came from their part of the country; the two families had known each other for ages. His first wife had died and he wanted another. He was a kindly, gentle man, though not quite the husband of her girlish dreams. He seemed to her, in fact, more a father than a husband. The courtship, the wedding, the move to Rome, that vast and dizzying metropolis—all so fast. She had felt as though she were moving in a dream where one scene melted into another without sense or logic. She hadn’t loved him then—how could she have? And, anyway, marriage wasn’t about love, as her grandfather admonished her; that was only in poetry. Yet, Pliny’s love for her was an extraordinary thing. When they were apart, he wrote her love letters that made her blush. And in time she grew to admire his generosity, his patience, his good humor; to take pride in his triumphs; to feel tenderly toward him. And yes, finally, to love him as a woman should love a man.

It had been hard at first. Though hardly more than a child, she was suddenly the mistress of an elegant town house on the Esquiline, surrounded by slaves whom she was expected to manage, while playing the hostess to clever, powerful men and their sharp-eyed wives. Somehow she had managed. She had made her husband proud of her. She had run his house, entertained his friends with her singing and skill with the lyre, would have borne his children, if—no, she wouldn’t think of that now. Yet always that little girl that she had been, the one who cried into her pillow during those first nights while her husband slept placidly beside her—that little girl was still
her
.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be fine. There’s plenty to keep me busy—the redecorating, my Greek lessons, and I have Ione for company. We’ll console each other while you men are off putting the world to rights. And I think I want to start painting again.”

“Do you? Splendid!” Her eccentric hobby delighted him, precisely because no other Roman woman would do such a thing—and she had a real talent.

“I want to paint Rufus, capture him at this age. They change so fast.”

“Ah.”

They were silent then for a while.

“And you,” she poked him playfully, “you mustn’t skip meals, and don’t overtire yourself, and remember to keep your chest warm.”