The Uncertain Hour (27 page)

Martialis was silent, apparently pensive and receptive, but Petronius had had these talks with him before and they had changed nothing. He suspected that the boy’s repentance was feigned, as always, or perhaps, in this instance, a reflection of his reluctance to talk back at a moment of crisis. The mere fact that Petronius still thought of him, a man in his midtwenties, as “the boy” only reflected the futility of his efforts to change him. The boy had grown up without mother or father, doted upon and worshiped by his extended family, left to run wild in the Spanish hinterlands, never subject to lecture or rebuke. Was it any wonder that he resisted grooming, when being untamed and natural had been the modus operandi of his every childhood triumph? Upon his arrival in Rome, he had been a sore trial to Seneca and Lucan; they hadn’t known what to make of him, what to do about him, how to suppress him, who to fob him off on. If Petronius had not taken a liking to him, there’s no saying how low the boy would have sunk before money could be scraped together to ship him back to Bilbilis in disgrace. And now, with grief’s license and some change in his pocket—Petronius had taken care to leave Martialis just enough to keep him solvent, should he spend moderately, until a new patron could be found; should he spend immoderately, Petronius’s entire fortune would not have sufficed—there was every likelihood of his reverting to character, being carried off by his own profligacy and pride to some irredeemable place. Petronius would not be there to prevent it, and he worried that Martialis’s respect for his memory and example would not be strong enough to restrain him. Was it really possible that, twenty years from now, he would represent but the briefest episode in Martialis’s life story, an anecdote routinely retailed and tailored for convenience, a twinge of unwelcome regret upon the uncorking of a vintage Falernian—a flawed memory of a previous encounter? If Mar-tialis did not take himself in hand, it would be worse than that—all of Petronius would be reduced to the nagging voice of moneyed respectability that occasionally intruded upon a cruel hangover.

“You know, Marcus,” he ventured cautiously, “the first thing a good man says to himself when he knows he is going to die is that everything he has ever done is worthless. This is normal; it is wise, and appropriate. It is also just a beginning, the first step toward something. When he hears himself saying it, he should rejoice—he is about to embark upon a journey. And the first question he must ask himself as he sets out is: Why have I waited so long to say this? I have
always
known that I was going to die.”

“Yes, all right.”

“Now, listen. I have two reasons for bringing this up. The first is that I don’t want to die thinking that my friendship with you has been worthless. If I am your mentor, you ought to have learned something from me. I want to be able to believe that I’ve helped you in some way. The second is that you have the chance to do what I have not. Don’t wait until the last minute to evaluate your accomplishments and your potential. Remember what Epicurus tells us: ‘While we are on the road, we must try to make what is before us better than what is past; when we come to the road’s end, we feel a smooth contentment.’ Do it now. Say to yourself ‘Everything I’ve ever done is worthless, but now I can change that.’ So when your last day comes, you won’t have any regrets. ‘Get on and live,’ Death says. ‘I’m coming.’”

Martialis was silent for several moments, and it was only now, as they passed back through, out of the village, skirting the port on the Baiae road, that Petronius noticed that they were still holding hands. Finally, Martialis sighed sadly.

“Listen, Petronius. I don’t want to fight with you, but what you say is very hurtful to me, and you ought to know it so you can make it right before we part.
First
, as you say, the only thing that matters to me at all in our friendship is the love we bear for one another. That has ennobled me beyond measure; I feel stronger and wiser and braver because I love you, and I would have hoped you would feel the same. The value of a friendship isn’t measured in its utility, mutual or otherwise. It’s like your ladle there, equally exquisite whole or in pieces, because its beauty is in the warmth it creates, not in what it can be bartered for. I’m surprised, really, that you don’t know that yet, at your age. You seem to think you’ve gone through some conversion today. Maybe you’re just expressing yourself poorly, I don’t know. In matters of the heart you seem to be just as ignorant as you’ve always been. And that’s said with love, because you still have the chance to change.

“And
secondly
, you tell me to get my priorities straight, to sift my wheat from my chaff, so that when I die I can die proud of myself. Well, that’s not living—that’s planning. That’s
insurance
. Get on and live? I’d rather trade places with you right now than live a hundred years planning for that one moment when, old and smug with a prune for a heart, I’ll have finally earned the immortal right to say: ‘I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of!’ Well let me tell you right now, Petronius, I don’t feel that anything I’ve ever done is worthless. I’m proud of all of it! Every minute spent blind drunk in some fleatrap, every skanky whore I’ve slipped it to, every obsequious epigram that’s earned me a cup of watery porridge. And nothing all you
Romans
can throw at me will ever make me feel as worthless as you’re feeling right now—as you’ve felt your entire life. I won’t let it, and that will be my life’s work. Ever since you were a child, you’ve tried to be someone you’re not, someone somebody told you you should be, and it’s brought you nothing but shame, misery, and self-hatred. Frankly, if all this cheap advice is the best deathbed gift you can think of, you can keep it. Can’t you fucking people be honest about anything? I’m sick, sick of it, and I won’t take it from you, Petronius. Not now.”

They were still holding hands, and Petronius could not help but notice—despite himself, because he wanted dearly to hold on to every word that Martialis threw at him—that they had almost reached the point on the road where they would have to part ways. He slowed his pace, and grasped on to Martialis’s hand ever more tightly, and raised his eyes to the sky, which held a few stars less than it had when they had left the village five minutes earlier.

“That’s funny,” he said. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to give the great deathbed speech. That’s how it’s always done in the books.”

Martialis snorted a laugh through his tears, and the snot ran down into his beard.

“It’s just that I don’t see what’s so great about certainty. Why does there have to be some great revelation? Why do you need it to be all wrapped up so neatly at the end? Why can’t you die in confusion, and shame, and doubt, and anger, and fear, as you have lived? Isn’t that the more honest death? Isn’t there honor in that, too?”

“I don’t know. You could be on to something. I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“You do that. And get back to me.”

They came to a halt. Martialis did not seem to be aware that they had reached the end of their road together.

“Marcus, there’s one last thing I need you to do for me. Tomorrow—this morning—a messenger will come for you in your room with a sealed amphora. You must not open it until you are safely back at the Pear Tree in Rome. And even then, I want you to show no one and tell no one about it until Nero is dead and a new emperor has been chosen. Will you promise me that?”

“What the fuck is it?”

“It’s a book. A satire, I suppose you could call it. I’ve been working on it for the past couple of years.”

“A book! You? What’s it about?”

“It’s about you, I think. Well, you and me, in a different world. I’ve called you Ascyltus.”

“‘Untroubled.’ I like it. What’s it called, this book of yours?”

“I haven’t given it a title. You can think of one.”

“And is it really so dangerous as all that? I mean, if it’s about me, how dangerous can it be?”

“It’s not dangerous. It’s private. Do you promise?”

“Promise.”

“Now say good-night to me.”

Martialis started, as if he had been stung by a bee, and the tears sprung immediately, luxuriantly to his eyes, pouring down his face to mingle with the snot in his beard. Petronius clung to him by both forearms, could feel Martialis’s knees weaken, as if he would drop to the ground, but would not allow him to fall. Martialis just shook his head back and forth, silently mouthing “no” over and over again. Petronius tried to fix him with the kind of stern, avuncular gaze he had once used to steel the resolve of vacillating legionaries, but it had no more effect on Martialis than it would have had on a two-year-old.

“Come on, man. You’ll regret it forever if this is how we say good-bye.”

“I told you, I never regret anything,” Martialis blubbered, and clung to Petronius just as hard as Petronius clung to him, forcing him to confront his molten mess of a face.

“Look at the sky, Marcus. The day is coming. I’ve got to go now.”

“Keep them waiting. What have they ever done for you, anyway?”

“Marcus, you’ve got to let me go.
Please
. I want to go.”

“What if I don’t want you to go?”

“You can come and bear witness to my death, if you like. It won’t take long.”

As Martialis pondered the offer, Petronius wondered if it had been a mistake to invite him. Melissa would be all serenity, silence, and compassion; Martialis would be likely to weep or, heaven forbid, wail. But it was irrelevant—Petronius knew his answer before he made it.

“No, I’ll leave you and Melissa alone. But thanks.”

“Then I must be off. Look at the sky. They’ll be stirring in Nero’s villa as we speak.”

That seemed to shake something loose, and Petronius could feel Martialis’s grip falter, then weaken. Finally, his arms dropped to his side.

“Forgive me,” he said, dragging a swathe of forlorn fabric across his nose. “You’re right. The night is over, and it’s time to go to sleep.”

“No need to get all metaphorical on me.”

“I thought that’s how you epic types like it. Ripe with portent.”

“Give me an epigram, rather.”

“Right. Here’s one I composed in bed with Chrestina yesterday. ‘Charinus is in the pink, and yet he’s pale. Charinus drinks sparingly, and yet he’s pale. Charinus has a good digestion, and yet he’s pale. Charinus goes out in the sun, and yet he’s pale. Charinus paints his skin, and yet he’s pale. Charinus licks a cunt, and yet he’s pale.’ Like it? It’s yours for ten sesterces.”

“I’ll owe you. Good night, Marcus.”

Martialis hesitated, his sandals kicking up little puffs of dust on the road, sending a few jagged stones over the lip and into the vineyard. His face, when he looked up and into Petronius’s eyes, was like a bed of weeds underwater, washed first this way and then that by alternating currents of emotion. But finally it settled into an effigy of grim acceptance, and he reached out to shake Petronius’s hand, as if theirs had been a chance encounter in the forum.

“Good night, Arbiter. See you in the morning.”

Petronius swiveled on his heel and descended the slope, into the vineyard, shoreward, without looking back. He heard no sound behind him, could not tell whether Martialis had gone on his way or stood where he had left him. As he made his way through the rows of sawn-off vines, pushing through a light, cold, knee-high mist, he tried to clear his head of thought, if only for a moment. What good were thought, understanding to him now, with the stars winking off one by one and the fishermen already repairing to their boats in the port below? He could hear them, even at this distance, as they retrieved their drying nets and hoisted their rigging into the waiting masts, calling out to each other in their archaic Greek. These men had surely been up all night; they were not the type to pass up an opportunity to carouse, and now their night was blending seamlessly with their day. They would not give up a day’s work, not even in honor of Saturn. Why should they? Would the fish stop biting, the fishmongers stop buying, the customers stop eating? Even on the shortest day of the year, people must find a way of getting on as usual. Tomorrow, for the first time in six months, there would be a few additional minutes of daylight; the day after, a few more. The Saturnalia would end, but the days would continue to stretch themselves. There was much to be done. A shout rose from the fishermen on the shore. In a moment, their sails would rise, fill with wind, and pull them out into the harbor to begin their day. Petronius passed from the vineyard into the dark of the oak wood, where night still clung to the ankles of the trees, and thence through the postern into his own orchard, where all was quiet. Through the bare branches, he saw a single light burning in a window of the villa—Melissa was waiting. He kicked off his sandals and padded through the orchard, across the perfume garden, and along the colonnade to the west terrace. There were just a few stars left now, hovering on the horizon, far out to sea above Sicily. Petronius knew that if he turned around, he would find the black outline of Mount Gaurus silhouetted against the brightening eastern sky. He leaned against the balustrade and watched the fishing boats push out toward Pithecusa, feeling the last of the night’s cold air rushing down the slope at his back.

He felt something warm and soft on his leg, and looked down. It was the puppy, pressing against his ankle in the manner of a cat. It stared out at the sea through a gap between the balusters. He reached down and picked it up, unresisting; he posed it gently on the coping and restrained it with a palm across its chest. The puppy continued to look intently westward, ignoring Petronius, as if it had fixed upon some distant object or were trying to understand some indecipherable puzzle. But there was nothing there, as far as Petronius could tell. What could possibly be of such interest out there to a dog, he wondered, and how long would it take the puppy to realize that he would never come to understand it, no matter how hard he glared at it? Surely the puppy could wait forever before it was graced with such self-awareness, but that would not stop it. On the contrary, it was the puppy’s fate to stare forever into the heart of its own ineffable mystery. That was what made it a dog.