you. I’m told you are something of a writer, that you record your thoughts and observations of life in the form of letters, which, from time to time, you publish. You will oblige me by omitting me from your reminiscences and leave me to a welcome oblivion. I ask it not for my sake but for the Order.”
“I assure you both,” Pliny replied with feeling, “that I have no wish to revisit these past two weeks. They have left a bitter taste on my tongue. The world will not learn of it from me.”
No, the world would not learn of it, but what had he learned? He felt he had grown older, as if those fifteen days had been as many years. Most Romans drank in cynicism with their mother’s milk. He somehow never had. But now he no longer felt the comfort of his old certainties. At the crucial moment, they had turned to water and trickled through his fingers. Would he ever again find firm ground to stand on? He suspected he would be a long time looking.
Epilogue
One year later.
Seagulls swooped and cried in the salt-sharp morning air. Martial leaned on the railing of the Amphitryon and watched the dockhands as they trundled the last of the cargo up the gangplank. The harbor of Ostia rang with seamen’s shouts and the creak of ropes as yardarms were hoisted up masts. The morning tide would soon be running, and a score of ships would depart from the busy port of Rome to every corner of the Empire. This one would take him home to Spain. Forever.
He was past fifty and felt his years heavy on him. He had spent half his life in Rome without ever achieving the success he dreamed of. He could no longer afford the expense of living in the city and, truthfully, he had begun to miss the hills and woods and rivers of his youth.
Domitian’s victims were heroes now. In his inaugural address, Nerva had promised to repress the informers and respect the freedom of the Senate. Of course, Domitian had said the identical words when he came to the throne. So had Caligula, so had Nero. Hearing this, Pliny and his ilk wept tears of joy and rushed to heap flatteries upon their new master. Some months afterwards, though, the Praetorians, instigated by their new commandant, Aelianus, rioted and besieged the palace, demanding that Nerva execute the murderers of Domitian.
The frightened emperor reluctantly handed over Petronius, whom he had already removed from his post as Praetorian commandant, and Parthenius. The former was dispatched mercifully with a single stroke of the sword, but the grand chamberlain had his private parts cut off and stuffed into his mouth before being strangled. Domitian’s empress withdrew to her country estate to lead a quiet life of retirement.
Pliny had come out of it very well, Martial reflected. He had joined the ranks of the new majority, applauded Nerva, and was now fulsome in his praise of those senatorial martyrs who had died for their republican ideals under Domitian. If he felt any lingering bitterness over the fate of the slaves, he was careful not to let it show.
But no, this was too harsh. Pliny wasn’t as cynical or as opportunistic as many others. He was a trimmer, but which of us, Martial told himself, is innocent of the charge of flattery and trimming-certainly not I. The age we live in has shriveled our spirits.
Some things that seemed important at the time now seemed trivial in retrospect. No more had been heard of the Christians, for one thing. As is generally the case with these hole-in-the-corner fanatics, they had dissolved back into the general muck, leaving the field to some other gang of lunatics.
As for Verpa’s charming family, the old man’s will was never challenged since the complainant, Lucius, had absconded. Left unguarded by Valens and his troopers, and with the city in turmoil, he had simply disappeared, taking with him whatever loose money was in the house. By now he could be in Egypt or Britain or anywhere in between. Regulus, Verpa’s lawyer, acted as executor of the estate and, in due course, the legacy to the Temple of Isis was paid. Soon after that Turpia Scortilla disappeared. One night, she attended a nocturnal ceremony at the temple. She was seen entering the private chapel with the priest of Anubis. She was never seen leaving it. Odd. But no one cared to pursue the matter.
Without much delay, Alexandrinus too left town to pursue his priestly vocation in other climes. How much money he took with him no one knew. The Isiac clergy were grimly silent on the subject.
Verpa’s mansion was soon sold off to some businessman who converted part of it into a fuller’s works. The odor of piss now made the whole street quite unlivable.
Martial scanned the waterfront. Pliny had promised to come down from Rome to see him off. Since the day of Domitian’s death they had never discussed the Verpa case and, in fact, the two men had rather avoided each other; there was no open breach, but a coolness grew up between them. Martial felt ashamed of his part in the affair. How much of that Pliny suspected, he preferred not to know. On the other hand, his erstwhile patron had never succeeded in gaining for him his heart’s desire, the position of court poet and, when Martial had, at last, asked him for a gift of money to pay his way home, Pliny had seemed to leap at the chance-though with many expressions of regret-to perform this small service.
And here he came now, bustling among the bales heaped at the water’s edge and up the gangplank. All smiles.
The farewell was brief and awkward enough. Martial recited a poem he had written in his honor; Pliny had the good manners to praise it. He overflowed with best wishes and lamented that life in Rome kept him too busy to travel. He promised to write. Of course, he wouldn’t. They bade each other farewell with a feeling of mutual relief.
And then the Amphitryon cast off and set sail. Toward evening they dropped anchor in the Bay of Naples to take on a consignment of wine before standing across to Sicily. A blood-red sun was setting behind the barren speck of Pandateria. Martial leaned out over the railing and squinted. He thought he could make out a lone figure walking slowly along the shoreline, gazing out to sea. It piqued his poet’s imagination. Could it be Domitilla-she whose letter to Verpa had set in motion all that followed? Still there? Conveniently forgotten and likely to remain so forever. Did she miss her old life or was she content to remain alone with her strange god, the one who forbade his worshippers to make images of him? This made Martial think fleetingly of the familiar Roman gods, nourished with the blood and smoke of sacrificial meat. And that made him think of the Roman Games, although he would rather not have. They had been enacted once again since the fall of Domitian. He had done his best to ignore them; they left a bad taste in his mouth. The Roman Games, he thought morosely: lies, murder, hypocrisy, betrayal. These are the games we Romans play best.
The wind was turning cold. He shook himself and went below.
