The day before the Nones of Germanicus.
The ninth hour of the day.
The bronze gates of the palace swung shut behind them with a clash of metal. A moment later the figure of Parthenius, the imperial chamberlain, preceded by a cloud of scent, strode toward them with arms outspread. Vast sheets of colored silk draped his whale’s body, rings glittered on his fingers and thumbs, the crisp curls of his hair appeared to be sculpted in silver. He performed, as well as his belly permitted, a low bow.
“What a pleasure to welcome all of you, my lords and ladies,” the chamberlain panted. “A rare evening is in store for you. If you will follow me, please.”
The guests made the minimal reply that etiquette demanded. Roman senators despised these imperial freedmen. Spawned in the gutters of Antioch and Alexandria and sold as children into the emperor’s service, they wielded more real power than any senator did. Parthenius, for example, oversaw the emperor’s domestic arrangements, woke him in the morning, and all but tucked him in at night. At dinner, in the bath, even in the latrine, some said, he never left the emperor’s side. A good word from Parthenius was worth much gold.
Preceded by this great man, the dinner guests filed into the Hall of Audience. The heat of the streets never penetrated here. Pliny shivered in the marbled chill and felt goose bumps on his arms. The hall was empty now that the day’s business was done, but visitors were always taken this way for a good reason: the vast space was designed to awe. In this stupendous vaulted cavern a man was no more than an insect. Pliny had not been here for some months, and so it was with surprise that he noted a new feature. Disks of moonstone as big around as shields and polished like mirrors had been attached with brackets to the walls and columns wherever one looked. For what purpose, he could not imagine.
From the great hall, their way lay through a splendid formal garden in whose center a sunken fountain shot jets of water high above their heads. Peacocks strutted past them on the path.
“Chamberlain, have you forgotten where the emperor’s banquet hall is?” Several of the guests had stopped where the path divided and regarded Parthenius with amused contempt.
“Our Lord and God,” he answered, breathing heavily, “prefers a more intimate room tonight, as we are so small a party. Come this way, please.”
Obediently they went through a door and down a succession of sloping corridors that turned and twisted until they had lost all sense of direction. And it seemed as if at every turn the corridor grew dimmer, dustier, quieter. Conversation died until there was only the shuffle of sandals and the wheezing and puffing of their guide to relieve the silence.
“And just down these steps, my lords and ladies…” A flight of worn stone steps descended into a well of darkness. No, this was all wrong. There was no dining room in the bowels of the palace. The guests bunched together, turned round and found their retreat blocked by a dozen Praetorians who had come up silently behind them. Women turned to their husbands with wild, questioning looks. Pliny caught the city prefect’s eye, but his superior’s face, controlled through years of practice, told him nothing.
“Before you, honored friends, gapes the Portal of Hades, the bourn from whence no man returns. Your Lord and God commands you to join him tonight in the realm of Pluto, his brother god.” Parthenius delivered this speech with the voice and gestures of an actor on the stage. Pliny breathed a silent prayer of thanks that he had not brought Calpurnia, though she had begged and pouted.
The Praetorians took a menacing step forward, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Among the guests, hearts froze but faces remained under control. It was crucial not to show fear, not to betray the smallest doubt about the emperor’s good will. A frightened man was a guilty man.
“I’ll lead the way,” Atilius Regulus called out. “Hercules wasn’t afraid to visit Hades, and I think I’m as good a man as he!” The rest of them took up his light-hearted tone as best they could. There was simply nothing else to do.
“I pray I don’t meet my first husband down there,” cackled Arulena Rustica, the much-married wife of a general.
“I think I’ll just stay there until my creditors go away” cried the gourmand Gavius Apicius, who had squandered a king’s ransom on oysters.
Their lips twisted in desperate hilarity, the guests descended, half-stumbling, into the black pit. One elderly senator turned and tried to claw his way up again, but was borne down by the weight of the others. At the foot of the stairs, moved by invisible hands, a door swung inward on screeching hinges
“Nice dog, Cerberus!” joked someone, but there was no laughter.
They were plunged into darkness. Suddenly Pliny could not breathe, and the blood pounded in his temples. Whichever way he turned, other bodies pressed against him. He had no idea where the stairs were. The air stank of burnt charcoal. It was obvious they were in the furnace room which, in wintertime provided currents of hot air to warm the floors above.
Then a line of tiny lights appeared in the blackness. As Pliny watched spellbound, the lights advanced in a double column, drew nearer, divided and formed a circle around the huddled guests. When they were just an arm’s length away, he saw in astonishment that each was a candle held by a little boy, who was entirely naked and black.
“Your name, master?” whispered a little candle-bearer. The accent was of the Roman streets, not Africa-the child’s color was painted on.
Pliny croaked a reply. In the crepuscular glow of the gathered candles, rows of chairs could just be made out, and beside each a dark object of some sort, standing about waist high. The child took his hand and led him to a chair. The candle dipped and gave its light to an oil lamp on a stand, the sort of lamp that hangs in tombs. Then pointing to the slab-shaped thing beside the chair, the child commanded Pliny in a piping voice to read his fate. All around him other demon-children were doing likewise and other guests were helplessly obeying. Pliny heard their gasps and stifled cries and a rising commotion of angry and frightened voices. He examined the thing, touched it. It was a plank in the shape of a gravestone and on it was carved his name.
From somewhere a double-flute began to play a funeral dirge and the naked boys, gliding like phantoms, performed a weird circle dance, weaving patterns in and out with their glowing candles. Now black-clad servants appeared, carrying tables with trays on them which they set before each place. Pliny peered at his. Black dishes containing black fruits and flowers-offerings to the dead. When a hand touched his shoulder he nearly leapt straight out of his chair. But it was the city prefect. “Ready to do your duty,” Fulvus whispered into his ear, and then moved away.
Now, over the shrilling of the flute, a disembodied voice began to chant Homer’s dismal verses which describe the pitiful, squeaking shades of the dead. There was no mistaking that voice. Frightened whispers hissed around him.
“Tell him, Publius, for the sake of the children!”
“It’s a trick, shut up!”
“ Tell him!” Other voices: “We adore your image every day at sunrise, Caesar!” “We shut our doors to our son and his republican friends.” “We rejoiced when the criminals, Senecio and Priscus, were put to death.” “And when you drove the rabble of philosophers from the city.”
“O, Lord and God, spare us,” a woman beside Pliny sobbed. “We never hid the traitor, Musonius, in our house, never! Torture our slaves, they’ll tell you who…”
Her husband clapped his hand over her mouth, but not before Pliny recognized her voice. He recognized them all, and in that instant, realizing why he was here, he groaned with shame. More guests leapt to their feet, upsetting the lamp stands and “tombstones” with a clatter, and all trying to be heard at once. They were innocent. They swore it on their children’s heads. But they knew who his secret enemies were, if he would only spare their lives…!
Then one voice made itself heard above all the others. “Hush, all of you! Silence, I say! Caesar, this excellent joke is worthy of your divine wit. Why, our friends who are not here tonight will feel themselves slighted when we tell them what fun we’ve had! But I fear some of your guests, and particularly the ladies, are taking it entirely too seriously. It would be unkind to encourage them further. I, for one, am hungry and want my dinner.” The speech ended with a forced laugh.
Old Cocceius Nerva, thought Pliny. An ornament of the Senate for more than forty years. Smooth, adaptable, a friend of the dynasty or, at least, not an enemy. He had never, before tonight, been remarkable for courage, but this was a brave thing he was doing.
There followed a tense silence which lasted until Pliny thought he could not bear it another moment, and then a trap door opened above them, letting in a shaft of light, and the distinguished lords and ladies, the flower of Rome’s aristocracy, made an unseemly dash for the stairs.
Above ground, the Praetorians were gone and Parthenius, smiling blandly, congratulated them all on their return from dead. But his hooded eyes said something else. Pliny stole a look at his companions. Women, bewigged and bejeweled, tried to repair tear-streaked makeup. The men avoided each other’s eyes, but all gazed at the tall, stooped figure of Nerva, their savior.
As though nothing were amiss, Parthenius, clasping his hands and smiling wetly, led them back the way they had come to the entrance to “Jupiter’s Banquet Hall” for the real dinner. Here, servants in white livery removed their shoes and led them in groups to their tables. Pliny noted that he, the city prefect and the informer Regulus, their companion of the evening, were each placed at a different table-to continue eavesdropping, of course. Pliny felt sick to his stomach and prayed that his face did not give him away. Had things come to this? A dynasty that had started off so fair? He would march into the prefect’s office tomorrow at daybreak and resign his post.
It had been only that morning, coming on the heels of the excitement over Verpa, that a message had arrived from the Prefecture.
“To Gaius Plinius Secundus, greetings from Aurelius Fulvus. Your presence is commanded at the palace at the ninth hour for dinner. Wives are particularly invited.” Pliny raised an eyebrow at this; as a rule, the emperor had little use for senatorial wives. “We will meet on the steps and go in together. Be prompt. Farewell.”
Curt and faintly unpleasant, as usual. Pliny disliked his superior. Some months ago he had been plucked from his civil law practice and asked to assist the Prefecture in clearing away a great backlog of criminal cases. Not long afterward, one of the deputy prefects, a man tortured by ulcers, committed suicide, inconveniencing everyone, and Pliny was moved into his position. Only for a few days, he was assured, but days had stretched into weeks with no end in sight. It was another feather in his cap, no doubt, but the job was irksome.
The sun was still high and the heat oppressive as his litter-bearers had snaked along the teeming streets, holding him high above the filth. The narrow streets of Rome were clogged with thousands of visitors streaming into the city to enjoy the revels that would occupy the next fifteen days: tomorrow the Ludi Romani, the Roman Games, began.
The palace sprawled over half the Palatine Hill, rising up “like seven mountains piled one atop the other, reaching to the sky,” said a flattering poet. It was divided into a public and a domestic wing. In the former, the Domus Flavia, toiled a thousand imperial slaves and freedmen-the clerks, scribes, and accountants whose drudgery made the vast Roman Empire run, while in the latter, the Domus Augustana, other slaves, sleek and perfumed, performed more intimate services for their “Lord and God.”
The building was entirely Domitian’s creation; he had supervised the design of it down to the smallest detail. His father and elder brother in their lifetimes had both been content with far more modest quarters.
When they had arrived that evening at the breathtaking sweep of steps that led up to the monumental gates, Pliny had been astonished to see among the company several known critics of the regime. Could reconciliation be in the wind? He had heard no such rumors, but the thought gave him pleasure.
Catching sight of his chief, Pliny had made his way toward him. The city prefect, a sallow, long-jawed man, gripped his forearm with false bonhomie and intentional pain. Aurelius Fulvus had been a stalwart of the regime for years. Raised to senatorial rank by Vespasian as a reward for his family’s loyalty in the civil war, he now held this powerful and lucrative office which was far beyond his modest intellect and sluggish nature. By his side was Atilius Regulus-senator, lawyer, informer-a man Pliny despised. Was he on the prefect’s payroll too? Regulus threw a friendly arm around Pliny and brushed his cheek with his lips.
“I regret that the Lady Calpurnia…” Pliny had begun.
“Yes, yes, never mind,” said Fulvus, “We didn’t bring ours either.” He drew the two of them close and whispered over the hubbub. “We are not here tonight to enjoy ourselves. Our instructions are to look sharp and listen well. Those were Our Lord and God’s precise words.” Lord and God. How easily the phrase rolled off Fulvus’ tongue.
“And for what precisely are we listening?” Pliny had asked, but at that moment, the tall gates of gilded bronze had swung open and the elegant mob swarmed up the steps between a double line of Praetorian Guardsmen in their white tunics and scarlet cloaks.
…Yes, he would resign his post. This embarrassing charade was the last straw. He was a Roman senator, not a common spy.
“You are all looking well, my friends. Hale and strong. No need for any of you to fear Hades!” Domitianus Caesar, Conqueror of Germany, Conqueror of Dacia, Pontifex Maximus, Consul, Lord and God, regarded them all with a tight smile. Like his father Vespasian before him, the emperor was thick-bodied, big-shouldered, and bull-necked. He had managed to enter the hall ahead of them through some secret passageway, no doubt, and was already reclining beside his wife on the imperial couch, raised upon its dais. An exuberant laurel wreath failed to conceal his thinning hair. When some of the guests began laboriously to kneel, Parthenius assured them that the emperor did not wish to stand on ceremony tonight and the prostration could be omitted. “My only thought,” Domitian continued, “was to honor Pluto on the night before we honor his more genial brother, Jupiter.” Vigorous nods of approval. Fixed smiles. “Cocceius Nerva, I believe, is hungry? Am I right, Nerva, it was you, wasn’t it, who said so?” “I am perishing of hunger, Caesar.” In fact, Nerva was a martyr to indigestion and seldom took anything but porridge.
“Perishing! Well, we shouldn’t allow that. Best eat your fill tonight, my friend, for who knows what tomorrow may bring, as some poet has no doubt said.”
The air crackled with malice.
Trying his best not to overhear any of the conversation around him, Pliny’s eyes strayed to the imperial couple. Domitian was a man of forty-five who had once been thought handsome. Now baldness and a paunch had ruined his looks. Beneath dense black brows, quick, mistrustful eyes peered out.
Behind him, as always, stood his cup-bearer and bed-mate, Earinus, a young boy of exceptional beauty except that his head was grotesquely small. As the boy leaned over to refill his master’s goblet, Domitian reached under his red tunic-the youth always wore red-and ran his hand up the inside of his smooth leg. Earinus smiled. The empress, however, did not. Domitia Longina Augusta, stared stonily ahead of her, putting not a morsel of food to her lips. A man of breeding does not fondle his pet boy in his wife’s presence.
She was a proud woman, the daughter of Nero’s best general. She had inherited her father’s strength of character, but, sad to say, his looks as well. She was as tall as a man, with a square jaw and prominent nose. Her face was thickly coated with powder of white lead-some said, to hide the bruises made by her husband’s fists.
It was not only with boys that he humiliated her. If one believed the palace “smoke,” Domitian had committed incest with Julia, his niece, a pale and delicate girl, and then forced her to have a near fatal abortion.
At a signal from Parthenius, waiters-Ethiopians, Egyptians, Syrians, Greeks, all of them beautiful young boys-came round with the appetizer course on trays of solid gold. On offer were baked dormice rolled in honey and poppy seed, Lucrine oysters, pickled eggs, and snails fattened on milk.
Course succeeded course without pause: sow’s womb stuffed with herbs and surrounded by the teats boiled in milk, lamprey eels from the straits of Messina, roast boar, mullet, hams ingeniously carved in the shape of pigeons, an enormous lobster garnished with asparagus, goose livers with truffles, and sea urchins. For drink there was Falernian wine, strained through snow. The beautiful boys refilled the crystal goblets as fast as they were emptied. Other slaves hovered about the guests, ready with silver ewers of rosewater to pour on greasy fingers and to offer their long hair with which to dry them.
Pliny was offended in his philosopher’s soul by these grotesque displays. He took just a little of each dish and drank abstemiously, as ever. He doubted whether anyone had much of an appetite left after what they’d been through. Still, his table fellows outdid each other in praising the fare, heaped up their plates, and belched enthusiastically.
Meanwhile, to entertain them, dwarfs dressed in miniature suits of Greek armor fought bare-breasted Amazons. The guests did their best to look entertained but their laughter was too gay, their smiles tense and wary. The only safe topic for dinner table conversation was tomorrow’s great sacrifice to be followed by days of theater and chariot racing.
As the dessert course of imported fruit and honeyed wine came round, the emperor rapped for silence. “Papinius Statius,” he called out, gesturing to the couch alongside him, “one of the few living poets worth hearing, is with us tonight. Though he is weighed down by years, he has obliged me by coming up to Rome to attend the Games and immortalize them in verse. I have asked him to recite to us from a work in progress.”
This was received with dutiful murmurs of thanks. The emperor’s love of poetry was genuine; he rewarded poets lavishly and provided copies of their works to the public libraries.
Statius, a frail old man with wispy white hair, got shakily to his feet. His bearing was patrician. He gravely acknowledged the emperor and empress, calling them “our own Jupiter and Juno.” In a quavering voice he read portions of an epic poem on which he was engaged and, soon running out of strength, sank down on his couch again. The guests applauded warmly, especially Pliny, who dabbled at poetry himself. Domitian, in a voice noticeably thick with wine, praised the old fellow’s years of loyalty and service to the Flavian House. “Where will I find your like again, Statius. Nothing but your poetry gives me pleasure any more.” It seemed sincerely meant. A mood almost of warmth had been created by Statius’ presence, but it wasn’t to last long.
The emperor’s tone changed in an instant. “I have lost a close friend today,” he said in a somber voice. “A pillar of the government. A colleague of yours, Senators. I heard of his death this morning with a sense of shock and”-he selected a succulent mushroom-“outrage.”
“Oh, irreparable loss,” murmured Regulus with feeling. Others felt differently. Lackey of the regime, enemy of his own class, one of Domitian’s most notorious and best paid informers, compared with whom Regulus was a mere tyro, who else but Ingentius Verpa? No one had dared to speak his name all evening, though his murder was uppermost in everyone’s mind. Now the emperor himself was going to confront them with it.
“It’s said he was killed by a slave,” Domitian looked hard into their faces. “Perhaps. Such things have happened. And yet there may be something deeper at work here. Atheism. Atheism! Verpa had uncovered its poison in the bosom of my own family. And, though it saddened me, I punished it as it deserved. Now, I swear to you, Senators, I do not take this lightly. Aurelius Fulvus is going to give his immediate attention to the case-we have already spoken about it-and I promise you, punishment will be swift.”
This was answered with loud “hear, hears” from the guests, whose sentiments, this time, were genuine. No one lamented Verpa, nor did any of them have much of an opinion about this atheism, which seemed to exercise the emperor so much. Still, Verpa was a Roman senator and a slave owner like themselves. That was enough.
“…swift…” the emperor’s words trailed off and he sank back on his couch. He held out his cup to Earinus for more wine. Momentarily his eyes closed. Pliny was struck suddenly by how tired he looked.
The soiree, it seemed, was over. At a gesture from Parthenius, the dining room doors swung open and the servants crowded in carrying the guests’ outdoor shoes. Pliny stood up with the others.
“You and I will remain a moment,” Fulvus whispered close beside him.
With a curt gesture Domitian dismissed his wife. “You! You ate nothing tonight,” he shouted at her departing back. “Did you think your food was poisoned? I don’t need poison to deal with you.”
“Earinus, leave us.” He addressed his pet in a gentler tone. “Parthenius, get rid of those donkeys.” He meant the slaves, who were making a racket with the plates. They fled.
“And will you be needing me further, Master?” the chamberlain murmured.
“Need you? Mehercule, what would I do without you!” Parthenius accepted this tribute with bowed head.
Domitian strode to the side of the room, where silk tapestries hung between the columns. He pulled each one aside and looked behind it.
“They spy on me, you know,” apparently meaning the slaves.“ They’re being paid to do it. They think they can evade me, a god! But I’ll catch them out!”
“Shall I have them killed, Ruler of the Universe?” Parthenius asked mildly.
The Ruler of the Universe sat down on a vacant stool and squeezed his temples with his fingertips. “As you think best.” The voice was flat and lifeless. “Now, Fulvus,” he turned his gaze on the prefect, “make your report. I could hear the shouts myself, I put no stock in them. I trust you heard the whispers. Who among them is plotting my death?”
“No, Caesar, impossible!” This was Parthenius again, an expression of horror on his face.
“What, then, am I mad?” Domitian rounded on him. “An emperor is the most unfortunate of men, because no one believes that his life’s in danger until he loses it!”
Pliny felt as though an elephant’s foot was on his chest. He struggled to draw a breath, then blurted out, “I heard nothing, Caesar, nothing at all. Not a word. Nothing…”
“I think you’ve made yourself quite clear, Gaius Plinius,” said Fulvus with a touch of sarcasm. “I too heard nothing distinct, Caesar. If it had not been for Nerva…”
“Nerva,” Domitian said very softly. “We will have to do something about Cocceius Nerva.”
“And the unfortunate matter of Senator Verpa?” Fulvus said. “I’ve had a detachment of troopers in the house since early this morning. What more do you wish done?”
“What do I wish?” Domitian gave him a ferocious look. “If I can’t protect my senators from being murdered in their beds, I shall have no allies at all among ’em. I suppose the slaves did it. I want them all tried and burnt alive as soon as the Games are over and the courts are in session again. Fifteen days from tomorrow. Plenty of time.”
“More than enough, Caesar,” the prefect replied, “if these were fifteen ordinary days. But it is my job also to maintain public order while the city is packed with visitors. Crowds must be managed, drunkenness and petty crimes repressed. Add to that the number of, ah, clandestine operations that you have entrusted to me. All this with only four thousand men. I can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Are you getting old, Aurelius Fulvus? Is it time I replaced you?”
“Please, Lord of the World, allow me to explain.” His voice cringed though his body remained upright. “If I were to take on the investigation personally, would it not seem to make too much of Verpa’s death? On the other hand, we don’t want to assign it to a mere tribune or centurion. I had thought to put a member of my staff in charge of it. A proven man, a man with many friends in the Senate chamber. In short, my acting deputy, Pliny-that is, with your approval, of course.”
Pliny, who had let his attention wander, began at once to stammer. “But, Prefect, I am a probate lawyer, not a policeman! In fact, I have made up my mind to return to my practice.”
“You’ve said nothing to me of resigning,” the prefect said in a menacing tone. “Will you oppose yourself to my recommendation and Our Lord’s wish?”
“Why, no, I…”
Domitian gripped Pliny’s shoulder with a hand that could have crushed an apple and brought his face close-that face with its eagle’s beak, jutting chin, thick neck. The red-rimmed eyes searched his. “It is my wish. I have been…” he searched for the word, “preoccupied lately or I would have spoken to you sooner, my dear Pliny. You know your late uncle served my father with the utmost loyalty and discretion for many years. I’ve already helped your career along, haven’t I? Without a word from me you’d still be waiting for your praetorship with the rest of the provincial newcomers.” “I know, Caesar, and I’m most…” “Grateful? Of course you are. Then show your gratitude now.” “Certainly, Caesar, it’s only…”
“You have your uncle’s temperament, you know. Scrupulous, meticulous, careful. And your private life is irreproachable, that counts for a great deal with me. I only wish I had more senators like you instead of those ‘philosophers,’ as they like to call themselves. I admire philosophy, and so do you. But those people, they use it as a cloak for treason! I know you agree with me.”
Pliny abandoned all attempts at speech and merely nodded. The emperor’s grip still held him fast.
“I knew I could count on you. Now then, you need only attend the procession and sacrifices tomorrow morning and then again on the Nones. The rest of your time you will devote to this matter. Understood? And now go home to your lovely child-bride. I envy you. You see the dragon I married!” Domitian let out an unpleasant laugh. “Come and kiss me, Gaius Plinius.” Domitian offered his cheek, a mark of signal favor.
Pliny and the city prefect emerged into the sultry September night. The sun had set hours ago and, except for a lamp glowing from a window here and there, darkness covered the great city like a lid on a pot. The two men stood talking at the foot of the steps while their litter slaves stretched and shook themselves. “This business tonight in the furnace room. You must have known,” Pliny said, trying not to show his anger. “Not in every particular,” Fulvus answered easily. “But inviting the wives!”
“Much more likely than their husbands to let something spill. Now let us have done with complaining and turn to the matter of Verpa.”
“You might at least have prepared me for that! I’m a probate lawyer. I’m not used to dealing with criminals-at least, not this sort of criminal.”
Fulvus waved off the note of indignation. “Nothing could be simpler. Don’t worry the thing to death like one of your convoluted inheritance cases. Just have a look around the place tomorrow, take depositions from the son and the woman Scortilla-she’s a bit of a whore, I’m told. Do you know her? No? What chaste ears you have. Question the slaves, of course. Oh, don’t look so queasy, they won’t need much tickling. Someone will talk, they always do.”
“The slaves are being confined in the house?”
“Yes, well the Tullianum is full up at the moment with more important prisoners awaiting a-ah-final disposition of their cases, if you get my meaning.”
Pliny knew what he meant.
“So, no place else to put them. Anyway, then all you have to do is sit down and write an impassioned speech condemning them. All in a day’s work for a lawyer, I would have thought. And the emperor and I will be most grateful to you. Now, I’ve assigned you a centurion-manners a bit rough, but a good man-and five troopers from the City Battalions, all I can spare, I’m afraid. As for the slaves, I’ve ordered them collared and shackled in their sleeping quarters, and that’s where they’ll stay until we execute them. Why can’t this great city of ours build a proper prison?” He raised his arms to heaven. “Well, goodnight, my friend. Best to your wife.”
As they mounted their litters, Fulvus called back, “Full dress uniform tomorrow. Mustn’t let the Praetorians outshine us.”