The Uncertain Hour (16 page)

“There is no life without honor, no honor without … Are you really going to force me to preach to you at this late hour? Please go back.”

“You misunderstand me, Titus. Of course you must act as honor requires. I simply mean you need not do it now, while the others are here. It can wait until supper is over and the guests have gone. If you lose any more blood tonight, you’re not going to be able to see to your guests. You were almost delirious earlier. What if you were to pass out in the middle of the symposium? Where’s the dignity in that?”

Petronius stared down at the bandage on his wrist, already spotted with blood. Certainly there was nothing beautiful about it, nothing seductive. It looked like the sheath of skin discarded by a diseased, elderly snake.

“If that’s what you came to say, you’ve said it now.”

“Actually, I came to tell you that the captain of the guard has stopped by to pay his respects. You ought to go out to him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sextus Gnipho.”

“I know him. Does he not know me?”

“Of course he knows you. You know he knows you.”

“But you said earlier …”

“He did not mention your acquaintance when we were making our arrangements.”

“Perhaps he was being discreet, thinking you are my wife.”

“Discretion was hardly the hallmark of his behavior.”

“Well, go along. I’ll be out shortly.”

“Shall I wait with you?”

“Go along.”

Petronius was tired, light-headed, nauseated, and anxious, but he had recognized the wisdom of her suggestion the moment she’d made it. It made little sense to carry through with his original plan. Nero was unlikely, at this time of night, to dispatch his thugs to finish the job. Far better—more dignified, yes—to do it in one final act in the early hours, when all had gone. He could have a quiet word with Martialis, persuade him to tweak the account of his death to reflect his dramatic intentions, just as Paulina had done for Seneca. It would only be a minor fabrication, not a wholesale reinvention. Biographers operated on hearsay all the time.

But he had been very rude to Melissa. He was angry, it was true. In fact, he recognized that he had been irrationally resentful of her all night, and now, perhaps, he understood why. It was not, of course, about what she had done with Gnipho that afternoon in return for the liberties they were all enjoying this evening. She had done it for him, Petronius, and with evident distaste and reluctance—an act of heroic, matronly martyrdom straight out of Republican myth. It can’t have been pleasant, allowing herself to be pawed and poked by that grizzled, hairy Gaul. Of course, ever thorough and courteous, she would have feigned pleasure, climax even, to ensure Gnipho’s complacency, make him feel he’d got the best of the deal. Maybe she’d even enjoyed it, though he doubted it—she liked smooth men with sophisticated technique. Where had they done it? Up against a tree by the roadside, within earshot of the guardsmen? No, Gnipho would have been too respectful for that. They’d have gone to the tradesmen’s cemetery up the hill, and he’d have had her sprawl over a moss-covered sarcophagus, her synthesis hitched above her waist, and taken her from behind. No danger of seeing her opinion of him reflected in her unruffled gaze. He’d have grunted like a hog, given her a moment or two to compose herself, then resumed his martial demeanor, stood to attention before his superior, and she’d have smiled at him gently, not forgiving, but open and cool, like a hostess greeting a guest she had never met before, to let him know that as of that instant they had no history together of any kind. Of course, Gnipho would never have had a woman like Melissa before, and would immediately feel abashed, a thief and a liar. Petronius had seen legionaries lustily, hilariously cut down little children in the fever of a broken siege, then later weep to themselves in shame in some darkened corner where they thought they could not be seen. Gnipho would feel like that after fucking Melissa. He would not be the first upon whom she’d had that effect.

But none of this was the cause of Petronius’s displeasure with her tonight. She was free to do as she pleased; Petronius could make no claim of exclusivity upon her. It was, rather, her unwonted actorship in his drama that bothered him, the fact that she had come to play an adult role, the role of an equal, in a performance he had written for himself as sole protagonist, director and impresario. Had she not always before been to him precisely what he had asked her to be, especially when she had understood better than he did what that was? Two years earlier, when he had sent her away—or at least encouraged her to explore her independence—had she not gone in precisely the right, forward-looking spirit, without a word of recrimination? And last week, when she’d offered to remain with him to the end—to today—it had all seemed so natural that she alone should be the companion of his last days. He had seen her as a silent spectator, or at best a prompter, whispering his cues when he lost them; instead, in the course of the week, she had become a principal player in the production, hiring the supporting cast, arranging their blocking, stepping into his character when he fell short. She had made him feel inadequate at precisely the moment when he most needed to feel invincible, just as she had surely done to Gnipho. It was not her fault, of course; he had pushed her into it with his own insufficiency, and she, naturally, had proved her unflappable competence at every step along the way, as she had always done. That competence, of course, had been their undoing. It was despicable, but he wanted her grateful and worshipful, and even though he knew perfectly well that she could be none of these, he wanted to punish her for it. Oddly, there seemed to be no way to do right by her, precisely because she made it so easy for him. She’d come to him, and he’d sent her away—again. How childish, and typical! Well, perhaps there was still time to set it right. Yet he had to admit to himself that even this prospect of atonement was self-serving and polluted with self-regard. He hung his heavy head. Had it always been this way between them? He closed his eyes and allowed the past to overtake him.

WHEN HE RECEIVED
confirmation that the ninth cohort had marched for the eastern frontier, Petronius dispatched his own lictors to Prusa with a letter and orders to escort Melissa to Nicomedia. In the letter, he excitedly described the tasteful little townhouse he’d purchased for her in a quiet residential district near the palace; the domestic slaves he would place at her disposal; the generous allowance she would enjoy to decorate her new home and clothe herself presentably; the privacy and freedom that would soon be theirs for the first time. He also sought to anticipate her objections. “Please understand,” he’d written, “I am trying neither to buy your loyalty nor to entice you into a gilded cage. The deed to the house is in your name and will remain so regardless of your decision.”

Petronius was not terribly surprised when the lictors returned from Prusa with nothing but a written response. “Governor,” it read, “I wish you had consulted me before going to such great effort and expense on my behalf. Now please understand me: It is precisely because I have been entrapped and unhappy for so long that I am in no hurry to exchange one situation of dependency for another. I know you think it unfair of me to compare you, patriarch of the Petronii and Proconsul of Bithynia, to a lowly centurion, but I have spent half my adult life regretting one decision and have no intention of spending the other half regretting another.”

As he galloped that afternoon for Prusa, Petronius was forced to ask himself a question he had hitherto managed to evade: Could she be playing him for a fool? Was it possible that she—about whom, after all, he knew so very little—was simply raising the stakes to a point at which Petronius would offer her anything, even her own independent fortune, to secure her commitment? He considered it highly unlikely, though not impossible, yet decided that it made no difference to him whatsoever. So long as he could have her, and keep her, and not have to share her, he was prepared to go to any lengths necessary. If that was what she wanted, that was what she should have. Yet, as he approached the city gates, his confidence began to waver as he recalled that he really had no idea what she wanted from him, and never had, and perhaps never could, because he was so obtuse and ridiculous, and because she refused to explain herself. It was not a question of throwing offers at her, any one of which was likely to offend her, but of throwing himself upon her mercy, and promising to do whatever it was she wanted him to do, if only she would condescend once and for all simply to tell him how to please her.

The camp was all but deserted, with the exception of a few officers’ wives and a handful of sentries too old or feeble to make the march eastward. Petronius was carelessly, perhaps foolhardily indifferent to the stares he attracted as he tracked her down to the barracks washhouse, where he found her rinsing white sheets at a trough of cold flowing water. She did not seem in the least put out to see him, but simply offered her cheek and went on with her washing. Still, when Petronius found himself incapable of opening his mouth, painfully conscious of his almost limitless potential for aggravating the situation with a single word, she was kind enough to launch the negotiations.

“What have you come to say to me, Governor?” she asked, keeping her back to him.

“I’ve decided to do whatever you tell me to do.”

Her shoulders heaved once or twice in silent laughter. “You know I can’t do that,” she said at last.

“Why not? What’s wrong with telling someone, directly and frankly, what you expect of him?”

“I’ve told you before. Unless you already understand it, no words can ever explain it, and once you’ve understood it, no words will be necessary to explain it. Just keep trying. It will come to you eventually.”

“What will come to me? Why must it be so impossible for you to tell me how to love you?”

She snorted through her nose. “And that is precisely what you must learn for yourself. I’ve waited twelve years for my husband to learn it, and I’ll tell you something—I don’t hold out much hope for him, but if he were to learn it tomorrow, I’d turn you away and never give you another thought. I won’t go to Nicomedia or anywhere else with you until you can prove to me that you are not exactly like him.”

She went on with her washing. Petronius considered the possibility that all she really wanted was to be made to obey, that somehow, miraculously, if he were to stride across the room, bend her over the trough, raise the hem of her dress, and take her forcibly, he would actually be giving her exactly what she wanted. It seemed improbable, but what did he know? It was as likely as anything else, he supposed; as likely as her extorting him for money, or wanting no money at all, or suing her husband for divorce, or remaining with him for the rest of her days, or learning to be docile and compliant, or sending Petronius away forever without an explanation. He advanced upon her in anger and lust, but stopped after only two steps.

“Wait,” he said. “What if I ask nothing of you at all? No promises, no declarations until the day you say you love me?”

She stopped washing and raised her chin. “You don’t have it in you, Governor,” she said thoughtfully. “I know you—you won’t be able to help yourself.”

“You can leave any time I fail.” Another silence.

“You promise never to say you love me until I give you leave to do so?”

“Never.”

“Never to ask me to say I love you?”

“Never.”

“Never to talk of our future together, or of all that you will give me, or of how happy you’ll make me?”

“Never.”

She sighed, dropped her shoulders, and cocked her hips. The sheet floated to the far end of the trough, where it bunched up against the drain. A few moments later, the water began to overflow the entire length of the trough, splattering her dress and crawling in a steady sheet toward Petronius. Barefoot, she seemed not to notice, to have lost herself in thought as she did after sex, but then she straightened her back, leaned across for the sheet, unplugged the drain, and resumed her scrubbing.

“Go back to Nicomedia,” she said. “I’ll make my decision by morning.”

He awaited her in the interior courtyard of her new house, standing beside the
kouros
. She was wearing the synthesis of cream-colored Indian silk that he had personally selected for her in anticipation of this moment, along with strands of Arabian pearls that she had woven into her hair. His eyes filled with tears when he saw her, and he fell to his knees and pressed his face into her belly when she joined him in the garden. Her hands gently stroked the back of his head.

“Now, now,” she said gently.

The next few months were the most joyful of his life. At last he let fall all pretense of attending to his duties, and devoted almost every waking hour to Melissa. There was no question of her living with him in the palace, but there was nothing unusual or scandalous about an unmarried official keeping a mistress, so he was able to come and go from her house as he pleased—a most gratifying change from the secrecy and paranoia of their trysts in Prusa. She, on the other hand, remained a married woman, and there was always the slim but real chance that she would be recognized in the streets by one of her husband’s comrades in arms or his spouse. To protect her reputation and his own, her forays into the city, either in Petronius’s litter or strolling on his arm, her face veiled, were limited to the early morning or midafternoon, when most shops were closed and citizens at their midday meals and rest. Occasionally, to escape the increasing oppressiveness of the summer heat, they would arrange to meet outside the city walls and take long walks in the hills or along the seashore, admiring the cargo ships, laden with Bithynian pine, boxwood, sour cherries, and saffron, as they plied their way through the gulf to the Marmara, the Hellespont, and the wider Aegean beyond. Finally, when July grew murderously hot, he took a modest villa for her on the shore of Lake Sophon, just a few well-paved miles east of the city, where they would meet uninterrupted for days on end. What his deputies and the citizenry thought of these absences, he never discovered and didn’t care.