The Bull Slayer - By Bruce Macbain Page 0,53

of November

On the third day following the attack on the Persians, a delegation of the city council called on Pliny to beg permission to perform their customary procession and sacrifice to Zeus, the city’s patron god. Pliny cautiously agreed to suspend martial law although he warned them that he would keep troops in the Persian quarter. If the festival went off without violence, he would allow things to go back to normal. It was Suetonius who suggested that they go a step further, join in the ceremony and make an offering to Zeus on behalf of the Roman community as a gesture to the Greeks.

“Excellent suggestion,” Pliny had said, “and I’ll go further still. These have been grim days and we could all do with a little diversion. I’ll order up a banquet and we’ll invite the Greeks.”

“Even Diocles?” Suetonius grimaced.

“Even him.”

“And Sophronia perhaps?” Suetonius looked hopeful.

“Absolutely not.”

The festival went off smoothly. There were some catcalls when Pliny and his entourage appeared but, at least, nothing was thrown at them. Pliny had purchased a handsome bull and made a gift of it to the priests to sacrifice with prayers for goodwill among all the inhabitants of the province. It made an impression. The day was rounded off with, inevitably, an oration by Diocles.

***

That night lamps blazed in every corner of the palace’s newly-decorated dining room. The cooks had labored all day over complicated dishes that Pliny, abstemious creature that he was, never ordinarily ate. Troupes of acrobats, jugglers, and musicians had been recruited on short notice. At the head table, Pliny reclined with Calpurnia, his senior staff and their wives, and Diocles, sans wife. Like any respectable Greek woman, she did not dine with strangers. At other tables, were mixed groups of Greeks and Romans—Pliny had planned the seating carefully. At one of them, Zosimus reclined with Timotheus, Calpurnia’s tutor, presumably deep in conversation about some nice point of Greek versification: Zosimus smiling, Timotheus not (the man had never been seen to smile since he had entered Pliny’s household). Little Rufus, who had been allowed to stay up late for the occasion, ran here and there among the couches, everywhere petted and fed.

Some were absent: Theron had declined the invitation, pleading that he was in mourning; Fabia made the same excuse.

By tacit agreement, no one spoke of Balbus or Glaucon or the Persians. Calpurnia complimented one wife on her gown, another on her tiara; spoke Greek to Diocles and accepted his effusive praise for her accent. There was a great deal of laughter—but it was brittle and forced. Pliny sensed the effort behind his wife’s gaiety. He now realized—though Calpurnia never complained of it—that the wives had united against her. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She tasted everything, but ate little of it. But her wine glass seemed always empty and she called for more. He had never seen her drink so much. When had that started? When he spoke to her, he felt awkward, he hardly knew what to say to her anymore.

“My dear, I invited that young Greek, Agathon. Thought he might amuse. Sent his regrets, though.”

“Who?”

“You remember, he was at the funeral, I told you—”

But she quickly looked away.

Suetonius’ well-tuned antennae sensed the tension and he outdid himself to be amusing, regaling them with tidbits of backstairs gossip about the sexual escapades of Messalina and Agrippina. Pliny heard himself laughing too loudly at things that didn’t really amuse him. He, too, was drinking deeper than usual.

And suddenly he wished that everyone would go away.

***

Calpurnia sat before her mirror, allowing Ione to unpin her complicated hairdo with her practiced hands. Pliny, who had seen off the last of the guests, entered their bedroom.

“You may leave us, Ione,” he said.

“But I haven’t finished—”

“I said leave us.”

For a moment their eyes met, master and servant, and what passed between them in that look Calpurnia did not see.

“Of course, sir. Good night, mistress.”

“I love your hair,” Pliny said. He stood behind her, removed the last of the pins, and lifted it in his hands. “It’s what I first noticed about you. You wore it so long then, when you were a girl. I gave you tortoise shell combs for it—do you remember?—when I came to ask your grandfather for your hand. You blushed and I was afraid you’d run away. That was the moment I knew I loved you.”

“I remember. I still have them.” Her voice flat, toneless.

“’Purnia, look at me. Turn around. Are you sick?