The Uncertain Hour (23 page)

“I hate to drag your pretty little ideas through the mud,” Mar-tialis said. “Ovid has a heavy lunch, he’s a little worse for the retsina, lies down to take a nap, falls asleep thinking about pussy, has a wet dream.
That
’s why he can’t get her back. End of story.”

“Marcus Valerius Martialis,” Cornelia scolded. “Must you always be so coarse and cynical? Pollia was trying to elevate the conversation.”

“There’s only one elevation that matters in love.”

“Don’t you believe in love, then?”

“Oh, I believe in love. I believe in love just as I believe in empire. They’re both transactions between partners of unequal strength, dressed up in heroic rhetoric. When I used to get into fights in the school yard, I’d squat on my opponent’s chest and spit into his face until he said the magic words. Either he could say ‘Marcus is the best!’ or he could say ‘I love you!’ I didn’t care which, but I wouldn’t let him up until he said one or the other. That’s much my view of love.”

“You’re a horrible person. Lucilius, won’t you defend a lady’s honor?”

“I’m a lawyer, Cornelia, not a necromancer.”

“Petronius?”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to piss.”

Petronius felt painfully self-conscious as he sought to extricate himself from the counterpane and make his exit with dignity. All eyes were upon him; no one now pretended light-heartedness or diversion—the night was too late for that—as he tottered to his feet and stumbled off into the darkness. Seemingly from out of nowhere, Commagenus stepped forward to offer his arm, but Petronius waved him off and faltered on, his mind a sodden bale of straw and sawdust. The house was dark now, a single torch burning at the door to the dining room. Had the other slaves abandoned the household for the festivities, or simply gone off to bed? Perhaps they had run away. No matter; there was wine left in the bowl, and Martialis to sniff out more if they should run short. It was still a beautiful night, and some conversation perhaps left to drain from its lees.

He heard the crunch of shells. Looking round, he found that he had wandered into the kitchen garden; the oyster-shell pathway should have been sharp and abrasive against the soles of his bare feet, but he felt nothing. He lifted his tunic and stared off into the dark orchard, where not a branch now stirred, as if the very night had tired of itself (or of him and his protracted drama) and gone to sleep. Even his heavy stream of urine made only a drowsy drumming as it thudded into the dry soil of an empty vegetable bed. Petronius shook himself off and turned to leave. But here was a sound—a whimper and a cry—and he turned back. It came from the darkest part of the garden, a corner where the outer walls of the kitchen and the larder met, a spot so sunless even at the height of summer that nothing would grow there. Now, as his eyes adjusted to the layered dark, he found that just the dimmest light from the dying embers of the oven room, glowing through the kitchen window, picked out the quivering form of a tiny animal at the foot of the wall. It was the same brown puppy he had seen tethered to the gardener boy’s ankle that afternoon, now tethered to the hinge of the kitchen door. The creature was clearly both terrified and elated by this nocturnal apparition; it cowered, averting its head in submission, yet its tail thumped vigorously in the dirt. Petronius considered the dog. This dismal patch was no place to leave a lonely and frightened animal, alone in the world and in the night. How could it ever know or hope that dawn would bring release? That was not something you could teach or explain to a dog. It would think that the night lasts forever, and come the day it would forget the night and worship the sun. And if, in the midst of the eternal night, someone should come to rescue it, or if at the height of the blazing day someone should beat it and lock it away in a dark room for some unknown infraction, well—that is what life is. For a dog. If it is a trained dog, it is pleased to obey orders; if it is a neglected dog, it skulks and flees and will not be made to work. But either way, it is always a dog and cannot ever be compelled to understand its own limitations. It is a self that creates the world and fills it entirely, and yet remains at the mercy of its own creation. Look at this poor, pathetic creature at his feet, not twelve weeks on this earth and it knows already to fear the night and solitude, and to praise the day and companionship. What else could it possibly need to know? Yet who would stoop to call that wisdom?

“Come with me, little one.”

Petronius untethered the puppy. It groveled and shrank from his grasp, then buried its head gratefully in his armpit as he clasped it to his chest and inhaled its oily, sour-milk scent. Somehow, the smell revived him instantly, as if it were a potent tonic or drug, and he returned to the party with a lighter step. Yet, as he approached the group, he became aware of an ominous silence, and almost at the same time he caught sight of a dark, motionless figure watching them from the shelter of the colonnade. The others had seen it too. Nero had sent his men after all, then, and it was time to call an end to the party and make his hasty good-byes. Petronius sighed and got to his feet, and the executioner stepped forward. Petronius knew him immediately.

“Are you still alive then, Arbiter?” Turpilianus called out, extending a hand that Petronius ignored as they closed in on one another.

“I always feel alive in your presence, brother, whether I am or not. Is it really you he’s sent? That’s resourceful.”

The other guests had risen, too, automatically, assuming that the time had come, and loitered uncertainly some paces away. The newcomer did not appear to be armed—was clothed, indeed, in the finest red toga, as if he had come directly from a triumph—but there was surely a contingent of soldiers waiting just out of sight in the event of trouble. Petronius imagined that, even in the dim light, the family resemblance must have been striking to them, and disconcerting. Titus Petronius Niger and Publius Petronius Turpilianus were of the same height, the same build, the same bearing, the same black hair flecked with gray and worn unfashionably long by both. In this gloom, of course, they would be unable to see the cruelty in Turpilianus’s eyes, or the corruption of his heart. Perhaps there was nothing to distinguish the brothers in the dead of night.

Turpilianus lowered his voice. “Don’t worry, you’ve got a few hours left. They’ve only just now wrapped up your trial.”

“How did it go?”

“You lost.”

“My sentence?”

“You need to ask?”

“So what have you come for?”

“I’ve come to say good-bye, Arbiter. Hope you acquit yourself nobly.”

“Well, good-bye then. I’ve got guests, you see.”

“Yes, I see. The emperor will be gratified to know that there are still Romans who value loyalty above their own personal safety. They’d do well to clear out before dawn.”

“Thank you, I’ll see to it.”

“Is there anything you’d like to give me? For safekeeping, I mean. Deeds, wills, that sort of thing?”

“I don’t think so. Good night, Turpilianus.”

“Good-bye, then, Arbiter.”

Just as he had appeared, Petronius’s brother melted into the shadows and was swallowed up by the night. Petronius stood his ground, just to make sure there were no further unpleasant surprises. When he was convinced that he had seen the last of his brother, he sighed and turned back to the guests, who sat in a row on the edge of the couch, glum and ill at ease, like petitioners outside a magistrate’s office. Petronius put a little bounce into his step, clapped his hands, and rubbed his palms together.

“That was pleasant,” Martialis said.

“You will all do me the favor of returning to your places and filling your glasses. We must not give my brother the satisfaction of imagining that he’s ruined our evening.”

“What is the matter with that man?” Lucilius demanded furiously. “Has he no decency whatsoever?”

“He has the face of a man swimming underwater.”

“How could two such different men spring from the same loins?”

“What makes you think we are so unlike? Anyway, he is only my half-brother.”

“Just look at him, prancing about in his triumphal regalia in the middle of the night. And for what? He disgraced himself utterly in Britain.”

“His triumphs cannot mitigate his lack of human qualities.”

“No,” Petronius said quietly. “But Nero certainly will, as he did mine. Now can we please change the subject?” He took his place on the couch, and the others moved to follow suit, with the exception of Melissa and Pollia, who hung back to pursue their private conversation.

Silence settled heavily upon the diners on the couch, each seeming, or pretending, to be lost in thought. In normal circumstances, such a pause would have been most worrisome to Petronius, the surest alarum of faltering conviviality, and as host he would have taken urgent, if subtle, steps to revive the party or to end it. Now he did not care to act. Let them reflect, if they wanted to; they’d certainly earned that right tonight. He wondered what each one was thinking. Was there one among them who was considering how best to cut the evening short and make his excuses without giving offense or appearing anxious to leave? He doubted it. It was more likely that each was scheming how to contrive to be the last to go; this was, after all, a historical event in its way, and, even without the considerations of friendship and tact, well worth seeing through to the bitter end. Who, after all, would want to say “Yes, I was invited to Petron-ius’s notorious suicide banquet, but I left early”? Petronius instantly chided himself for his cynicism; and yet, if these were indeed his dearest friends, why did he need to keep reminding himself of that fact? It was, he understood, because he was so utterly alone in what he would have to do after they’d left, and in his mind and in his heart he had already said his good-byes. And suddenly, with blinding conviction, he knew what each of them was thinking. Each was asking himself at that very moment what it must feel like to be in Petronius’s shoes, and to know that it was now a matter of a few meager hours before he would be dead. Dead forever. They would try to wrap their minds around the notion of the absolute, irrefutable inevitability of their own imminent dissolution—“Dead, dead, dead! I will be
nothing
!”—but Petronius knew with equal conviction that they must fail. Ultimately they must come to that fork in the road so familiar to every soldier in the field when he finds himself thinking: “It will happen to him but not to me.” That was natural, and perfectly reasonable, as he himself knew from personal experience. But he was already well embarked on the other tangent, the one never taken until now, and so he had left them behind. In a way, it was not he but they who were the living ghosts, already fading from view in the mist at his back. The little world was as nothing, its panoramas and inhabitants but feeble, flickering, translucent shadows, when set against the great unknown universe yawning before him. In a strange way, he realized, he felt almost proud of himself—he could now say that he knew something, understood something known and understood by no one else. Achilles, too, had sailed wittingly to his preordained fate, and that knowledge had been the source of the greatest measure of his courage; but not even Achilles had known precisely, to the place and the hour, where it would happen. Was this grateful resignation courage? Petronius was doubtful; he had attended too many dissections of courage over the years to believe that it could ever be truly understood by those who seek it, wield it, or forsake it. He only knew, as Achilles knew, that courage was for lesser things. He had no need of it now.

“It’s gone cold, hasn’t it?” Lucilius asked.

“Would you like to go inside?”

“No. I like it.”

“We could build up the fires, but they’ve all gone off to the Saturnalia. I don’t know where we keep the firewood.”

“Never mind. There are plenty of blankets.”

At some point, Pollia and Melissa had wandered off together to the far side of the terrace. Now they reappeared, arms wrapped about one another’s waists, Pollia resting her head on Melissa’s shoulder. When they reached the couch, they separated with a kiss. Melissa climbed in beneath the counterpane beside Petronius and laid her hand across his chest. Pollia perched herself on the edge at Fabius’s feet. Fabius gave her a quizzical look and beckoned her to join him, but she shook her head and hugged her shoulders.

“What have you two been plotting?” Cornelia asked, a conceit of jealousy in her voice.

“We have been discussing second chances.”

“Second chances?”

“What we would do if we had the chance to do something over again.”

“And?”

“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, come on!” Cornelia snorted rather coarsely. “It’s a game, isn’t it?”

“Pollia?” All eyes turned to Pollia, but she shrank into herself and shook her head again.

“Sorry.”

“Be a spoilsport if you like. I for one know exactly what I would do. I would never have married Dolabella, my first husband, the impotent lout. I’d have held out for Lucilius from the start, and by now we’d have lots of lovely children. Perhaps even a grandchild or two.”

“How very sweet of you, darling. The problem is, if I could do it all again, I should have chosen to stay in Sicily after my term as procurator, instead of seeking my fortune in Rome. And then I’d never have met you, and even if I had, I’d be poor and you wouldn’t have me.”

“Beast! How could you?”

“Sicily’s a delightful place. Quiet, good wine. Nothing more complicated to adjudicate than a few vendettas and the occasional act of piracy.”

“I think I’d have taken my studies of Greek rhetoric more seriously.”

“Ah, how noble of you, Fabius. What about you, Anicius?”

“That’s easy. I’d have had more sex when I was young enough to enjoy it. A lot more sex.”

“An entire generation of grammar-school boys thanks you for that omission.”

“Yes, and I should have been kinder. I wish I had been a kinder person.”

“Rubbish!” Cornelia exclaimed. “How could you possibly be kinder than you are?”

“I was not so kind as a young man. There are many who are not with us today to whom I should like the chance to apologize.”