The Uncertain Hour (3 page)

Surisca was massaging his shoulders, her soft, brown belly so close to his face he could see the lovely down around her navel. Her hands were soft, too, like a child’s. How long would they stay so, after she’d lost her privileged position?

“Surisca,” Petronius said. “What would you do if you were free?”

Her hands stopped momentarily, then continued to work.

“I don’t know,” she said after a while. A thrush flew in through the open door and perched on the windowsill. Then it swooped down and disappeared into the bathing rooms. It would surely break its neck trying to get out again.

“Would you go home?”

“My home was destroyed, and all my family is dead or sold.”

“Oh? I thought you were from Tyre.”

“I was raised in Tyre, but my people are from the Syrian desert. My village was burned by the Parthians.”

She went on with her work in silence, moving down his body to his lower back, buttocks, and thighs. She stopped to drizzle more oil into her hands, then reached between Petronius’s legs.

“How old are you, Surisca? Seventeen?”

“I think I’m fifteen, sir.”

“You’re very young. Surely there is something you would like to do?”

“I’m happy to serve you, Master. Will you roll over now?”

“But if you were free?”

She gave the matter some thought as she continued to administer to him. Her eyes were closed as her hands worked mechanically. She had kohl on her lower eyelids. Her thoughts, like his, were elsewhere. When she spoke, her voice was that of a thoughtless child caught up in a daydream.

“I suppose I would go to Rome and marry a baker.” She giggled charmingly.

“You haven’t been to Rome. It’s noisy, smelly, dangerous. You’d live in a tiny room in a tumbledown tenement in a treacherous neighborhood. You’d pay an exorbitant rent and be kept up all night by the rattling carts. You’d better stay here.”

“Still, I would. There’s nothing in Cumae.”

“Why a baker?”

“I have a friend who’s a baker. He does well.”

“And will he go to Rome?”

Surisca sighed impatiently. “This isn’t working. Should I put it in my mouth?”

Petronius raised his head and looked down the length of his body. He had barely been aware of her hands on his penis, which was limp and shriveled like an old man’s. That was a shame. He doubted that he would be in any condition that evening to make love with Melissa, which meant that this sad little interlude would probably be his last chance to take his pleasure with a woman, even though she was only his slave. He would like to feel it one last time, and Surisca certainly knew how he liked it, but ultimately what did it matter? Again, he felt himself overcome by weariness and uncertainty.

“Leave it,” he said. “It’s not important.” Surisca immediately turned away to rinse her hands in the basin by the door. Petronius followed her with his eyes, his gaze lingering on the movements of her small buttocks through her shawl. When she stepped into the doorway and made her courtesy, the sunlight silhouetted her thighs. Petronius felt a lump of startling sadness rise in his throat and salty tears sting his eyes. This would not do at all, at all.

Petronius lay on his back for a while. He could hear the thrush, panicking in the next room. It would flutter and bang against the ceiling, and every minute or so pause to rest on an exposed rafter. Then it would resume its attempts to escape, always in the same way, never learning from its mistakes. And it would certainly die. That was his life now, panicking and desperate and doomed. It was banging against his ribcage, trying to get away to safety. But a man’s life is not a wild beast; it is his property, a domesticated animal, and it ought to respond to its master’s command. If he bids it to lie down quietly and await the sacrificial knife, it ought to do so obediently, with humility and trust. If a dog refuses to obey, whose is the fault? Why, the master’s, of course, who has trained it inadequately. A man who cannot master his own dog can hardly be expected to master himself. Well, well, it was too late for a refresher course now—if he had to drag his own life kicking and snarling to the altar, so be it. There was nothing dignified in it, alas, nothing praiseworthy; but it would submit in the end, he would see to that.

There came a sharp crack, followed by a muffled thud, from the next room. The bird had found the window. Petronius sat up, eased himself off the table and returned to the bedroom, where a fresh tunic and his steward were waiting for him.

“Help me on with this, will you, Commagenus?”

Petronius grabbed the garment from the bed, then gave it a second look. “What is this yellow?”

“Baetic wool, sir. From Spain. Lilia found it in the market in Naples.”

“It’s very soft, isn’t it?” Petronius held the tunic out for Commagenus, who gave it a brief appreciative rub between his thumbs before slipping it over his master’s head. Petronius slid his feet into the sandals and the steward knelt to fasten them.

“Should Lilia put out your toga for this evening, sir?”

“No, I won’t wear the toga tonight. This will do.”

Petronius led the way through the curtained doorway into the adjoining dining room, designed with only two couches for intimate dinners, but rarely used. At the far end, a pair of doors gave onto the colonnade, facing the main house. Commagenus followed two steps behind Petronius. Here in the shade there was a slight chill, though the sunlight was still bright upon the orchard and the sea. Petronius stopped by a small altar to Apollo the Healer.

“What do you think? Will we be able to eat outdoors tonight?”

Commagenus stuck his nose in the air, like a hunting dog, and sniffed. “If the wind doesn’t pick up, I should think. I’ll have braziers set up by the dining couch, and some extra blankets handy.”

“Do that.” Petronius moved on. “Listen, Commagenus. I’ll need the entire household on hand tonight. Tell everyone to stay put until you’ve heard from me.”

“Tonight, sir? May I remind you, the festival …”

“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll release them all in good time, don’t worry.”

“Which companies, sir?”

“Every company.”

“The field hands?”

“Every company. Send someone to the vineyards for Marsius and his boys. I want them all here tonight. Vellia can send them some bread and onions if they’ve missed their dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, will you tell Vellia I’ll be down to see her in a few minutes?”

“Yes, sir.”

Petronius watched him hustle off along the colonnade. Then, glancing down, his eye was caught by the small golden Apollo at his feet, standing in a niche set into the half-wall. Petronius considered the god’s bland, well-fed face, his elegantly pleated robe, his glimmering lyre. He was a local god, with his ancient oracle in a cove just over the hill, but neither he nor his Sibyl had ever been of the least assistance to Petronius. Suddenly, Petronius found himself flushed with anger. He strode into the bathhouse, found the dead thrush, and returned to throw it contemptuously at the idol’s feet.

“There’s your sacrifice,” he muttered. “Heal that, you Greek pansy.” He continued on toward the main house.

He had not gone ten strides when he saw Melissa emerge from the library, tall and straight as a statue of Athena. She wore a plain, sleeveless gown of undyed grayish wool, and her hair, the color of ripe flax, was gathered in a single long braid at the back, like a German’s. She had not yet seen him, though plainly she was looking for him and he was directly in front of her. She seemed distracted, a little distraught, and she hugged her shoulders as if she were chilled. Petronius stood and watched her. He thought that, perhaps, if she turned away without catching sight of him, he would not call her back. Distraction did not become her, it revealed her age and made her seem fragile, which she was not. He could not bear to look at her. With dark shadows pooling beneath her high cheekbones and at the corners of her lips, she made him think of the tragic Niobe at the moment when she first notices that her children are missing.

But then she saw him, her eyes as gray and clean as pebbles on a beach, and he was overcome with remorse so that his own eyes grew wet when she smiled at him. And yet neither of them moved, and they stood like fools who are compelled to wade through their own ignorance at each new encounter. That felt especially true now, today, when, with the hours closing in, he had yet to find a way to unburden himself to her. Perhaps that was yet another duty in which he would prove himself derelict. The longer they stood, the greater the distance seemed to grow between them, until it might almost have been easier for each to go his own separate way. The smile wilted and died on Melissa’s lips, then her breath caught and she brought one hand up to cover her mouth, as if she had seen something horrible rise up behind him, or had looked into his secret soul. Petronius felt as if he might never move from that place, but Melissa, ever the perfect Roman matron, instantly mastered herself and came to him, arms outstretched as if in reconciliation. Petronius envied her composure; in some ways, of course, her situation was far more difficult than his.

She took his hands in hers, and even at arm’s length he could smell the strong, oniony scent of another man’s sweat on her.

He pulled her to him and she rested her face on his chest.

“I’ve been to see the captain of the guard,” she said with unrehearsed detachment. Her hair smelled of iris; stray wisps of gray stood out at the temple, like cat’s whiskers.

“Yes?”

“He’s agreed to everything we’ve asked. Titus, I …”

“That’s good. Then we’ll get on with the preparations.”

There was a silence, during which Petronius was again acutely, almost painfully sensitive to the world around him. The lengthening shadows stood out like knife blades on the path. He felt he could count every strand of hair on Melissa’s head, every clattering stone on the beach below. Every point of contact between his body and Melissa’s felt bruised and hot.

“It seems he served with you in Bithynia. He vouched for your honor.”

“A centurion vouched for
my
honor? What was his name?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Something or other.”

“And?”

“And? Your guests will be permitted to come and go as they please. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Of course.”

“There will be pickets posted at the gate, at the front door, and on the beach.”

“I’ll have something sent out to them. It will be a long night.”

“How thoughtful of you, Titus. I’ll have my bath now.”

“Thank you, Melissa Silia. For all this.” Petronius kissed the top of her head and they parted, neither looking back.

It was strange, Petronius thought, that she had not more to say to him, nor he to her, on this of all days. Of course, he knew what she had done to win the centurion’s cooperation, and it was only natural that the less they had to say about that, the better. Still, until she had arrived from Rome the previous week, bearing the news of his imminent arrest, they had not seen one another in six weeks, and even that visit had been overshadowed with foreboding and melancholy. Now, here at last was the golden opportunity, the moment of necessity for the two of them, and neither seemed inclined to broach the subject, or capable of doing so. When they’d first met in Prusa and become lovers—was it really only eight years ago?—she’d been disarm-ingly, even aggressively, direct; if she were cautious and circumspect now, he had only himself to blame. In a moment of despair and self-loathing, he had abandoned her without excuse or explanation—though an explanation had hardly been necessary. He had left her to sink or swim in the shark-infested waters of the imperial court, and she had acquitted herself admirably, against all odds. Now it was Petronius who was drowning, and she had come to him without summons, of her own free will, not only to warn him of the peril he faced, but to tend to him in his hour of need. Perhaps she imagined there was nothing left to say, but even at his most skeptical Petronius knew this to be wishful thinking. First of all, there is
always
more to say, to feel, to be confounded by. And then, even in the unlikely event that she had nothing more to say to him, she must feel that he had been groping toward a meaningful exchange of some kind, and she had offered him none of the encouragement she knew he would need. She had helped him put his affairs in order efficiently and affectionately; she had shared his bed; she had placed herself in some danger by consorting with him at this critical moment; she had submitted to a distasteful bargain to ensure the success of tonight’s dinner; but she had yet to come to him and say: “Titus, if you have anything you need to tell me, now is the time to do it.” And until she did, he could not. He could not.

She had already started for the bathhouse, and when she turned at his call and the hem of her tunic rose and rippled, it seemed to Petronius for one moment as if the cares of the years had fallen away, and that she was again as she had once been. But he saw at once that she had dropped her shoulders and allowed a kind of vapid languor to invade her gaze. She was the kind of person who yawned when she was afraid and stared with limpid intensity into the eyes of those who bored her most. To see her like this, sorely provoked by the day’s unpleasant necessities, yet so serenely composed, with one hand on her hip like a waitress at a roadside tavern, was dazzling. He found himself staring at her in mute perplexity and desire.

“What is it you wanted to tell me, Titus?”

“I … nothing. I … it’s difficult.”

She cocked her head to one side, like a songbird, and smiled sympathetically, her eyes half-closed as if she would fall asleep right there on the path.

“I know it is,” she said gently. “But you must bear up. It’s almost over now.”

Petronius watched her turn and disappear into the bathhouse. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, the only person he had ever wanted, and he had lost her as casually as one loses a ring removed before a swim and thoughtlessly knocked away. The important question was not why she had returned at the final hour to allow him one last chance to redeem himself, but why, after a week in her company, he had failed to do so. It was unlike her to allow him to idle in error for so long. What was she thinking?