The Bull Slayer

“And so we entreat Almighty Zeus to favor our city, our province, our new governor and the benevolent Emperor who, in his wisdom, has sent him to guide us…”

Pliny, sitting stiffly, itching in his toga on this unseasonably warm morning, was moved in spite of himself by the thrumming baritone. Never mind that what was said was far less important than what was not said. He knew that Bithynia-like every land inhabited by Greeks-was a cockpit of warring factions, who agreed on only one thing-resentment of their Roman masters. In Nicomedia, in Prusa, in Nicaea and the other cities of the province, their ancestors had once debated questions of war and peace, life and death. Roman domination had put an end to that, yet their fractious spirit lived on, the more bitter as the stakes were smaller. Each city was a stage where the grandees waged constant battle for honor and influence. The rise of one meant the downfall of another and, like the all-out wrestling matches that these Greeklings were so fond of, there were no holds barred. Their world was a taut, vibrating web of shifting alliances, of rivalry and obligation. A disturbance at any node sent shivers racing along its silken strands. At the center of this particular web sat Diocles of the Golden Throat.

Pliny knew him, of course, by reputation. Diocles’ oratorical powers were famous throughout the civilized world, his circle of friends reached even to Rome. Diocles wasn’t a big man physically, he was shorter than Pliny, but he seemed somehow to swell, to grow as he addressed the citizens, councilors, and magistrates of his city. Tossing his leonine head with its mane of silver hair swept back, thrusting out his chest like a bantam cock’s, sculpting the air with gestures precisely choreographed to accompany every shifting inflection, he sent his voice up to the highest tier of seats in the vast, open-air theater. To Pliny’s trained eye it was a performance not to be missed.

A pity that the surroundings failed to equal the grandeur of the sentiments. The theater, at close hand, was a near ruin. After an expenditure of three million sesterces to repair it, it was subsiding with huge cracks and holes. The colonnade behind the stage was littered with column drums lying where they had been abandoned a year or more ago, and beyond it a giant crane rose up against the sky, its ropes slack, the circular cage of its treadmill, where slaves had once labored, now empty. And this same dismal scene, Pliny knew, was replicated in every city in the province. Huge sums had been raised to beautify the cities, to provide baths, aqueducts, gymnasia and every other amenity of civilized life, only to vanish-into whose pockets? — with the work still undone. And meanwhile anti-Roman sentiment and factional violence grew with every passing day.

It was for this that Pliny had been sent here. And today he would tell them plainly what he intended to do. He was by instinct a modest man but this morning he had proceded to the theater with all the majesty that a Roman governor could command. He rode in an open litter preceded by trumpeters and a dozen lictors, bearing the fasces on their shoulders and bawling at the crowd to make way. Behind him marched his senior staff, all in brilliant white togas, and following them a long tail of supernumeraries and assorted “friends.” Unseen in the crowd, soldiers in civilian dress stood ready to pounce on anyone with an angry face or a stone in his hand. Meanwhile, Balbus, not to be outshone, led his own procession with nearly equal pomp from his headquarters in the treasury building. Here, then, was the might of Rome assembled-palpable, undeniable, inescapable.

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.