Empire (55 page)

His passion reignited hers. Their lovemaking was fiercer than ever, fired by the knowledge of their coming separation.

“And you’ve been faithful to her the entire time, Lucius? Even though you haven’t been alone with her for over a year?” said Martial. They were in the garden of Epaphroditus, along with their host and Epictetus.

“Just as I vowed to her,” said Lucius.

“Let me make sure I understand. This woman went away for several months, then finally returned, and now she refuses to meet with you again, except in public and in passing. Yet still you remain chaste, having no intercourse with either women or boys?”

“That is correct.”

“But, Lucius, this is madness! If the woman’s lost carnal interest in you, you must move on. Oh, I understand the heartache, the longing, the period of grief when a love affair ends. But while you’re waiting for that to pass, you still must attend to your physical needs. If you don’t feel ready yet to take pleasure with another woman, then take a boy, since you have no real interest in boys. That way you can experience all the physical pleasure with none of the regret you might feel for betraying this woman—though how you can betray a woman when it was she who abandoned you is beyond me.”

“Martial, you simply don’t understand. She hasn’t betrayed me. She’s as chaste as I am.”

“Oh, really? How can you believe that? Of course, you won’t even tell us if this woman is married, or a widow, or some other man’s slave, or a common whore in the Subura.”

She is none of those things,
thought Lucius, but he could think of no way to explain that fact without giving away Cornelia’s identity.

“Personally,” said Epictetus, “I think there’s nothing perverse or unnatural or even unusual about remaining chaste, if the body and mind are
in harmony with such a choice. This mad rage to deflower virgins and sample every available prostitute and carry on illicit affairs with other men’s wives, and meanwhile to give equal attention to fawning boys and compliant eunuchs—the sort of topic so fashionable nowadays in poetry—seems only to make a man constantly agitated and dissatisfied. Such a surrender to lust yields very little contentment in the long run.”

“Ah, but it yields so much pleasure in the short run,” said Martial. “Though it can be quite exhausting, I’ll grant you. Our emperor used to be quite the sexual athlete, you know. In his younger days, before his father became emperor, they say the young Domitian was on a first-name basis with every prostitute in Roma; he’d go swimming naked in the Tiber by moonlight with a whole group of lovelies. And he was quite the seducer of respectable matrons as well. He called his activities ‘bed wrestling.’ I like that, don’t you? It shows that our emperor in his younger days didn’t take lovemaking too seriously. It’s was just another way of keeping fit and working up a good sweat, like horseback riding or a bit of exercise at the gymnasium. Of course, once our emperor married—a true love match—there was never a more devoted husband and father. Ah, the death of that precious little boy! What a blow that was. And his wife’s subsequent affair with that actor, Paris—the irrational act of a grieving mother, surely—was yet another disappointment. Our emperor did what any self-respecting Roman would do—divorced his wife—and Paris just happened to be murdered in the street one night. But so devoted was our emperor to his chosen spouse that he forgave and took back the empress, and their marital bliss continues. My fondest wish is that they will soon produce another heir. Indeed, I have a poem already prepared for that occasion: ‘Be born, great child, to whom your father may entrust the everlasting reins of empire—’ ”

“And yet, does Domitian look happy?” said Epictetus. “Was he ever happy, even in his younger days, when he was so proficient at this so-called bed wrestling? No. Always, he displays that same dour, constipated look that one saw on his father’s face. Yet behold our friend Lucius here. Have you ever seen a man who appeared more contented? Yet Lucius has but one lover, and that lover makes no demands on him at all. He remembers the pleasures he once experienced with her, which are perfect and inviolable in retrospect, and contemplates her from afar, with some suffering
but also with the bittersweet satisfaction that she longs for him as well. Clearly there is some danger or impropriety attached to their relationship, either for her or for him, or else I think he would tell us her name; but that element of risk must only add spice to his longing. He loves this woman as certain men are said to have loved a goddess—from afar, with utmost devotion, and at their peril. See how satisfied he appears—his eyes gleam, his movements are sure and graceful, his whole bearing is that of a man at peace with the world and with himself. I think our friend Lucius has discovered a secret happiness that the rest of us can only guess at.”

“We’re certainly left guessing at the name of his lover,” said Martial.

Lucius smiled. “It’s strange, but somehow this relationship—irregular as it may be—has filled a need in my life. As grateful as I am for the gift of friendship from each of you, there was a vacant place inside me, an emptiness that remained unamused by your wit, Martial, unsatisfied by your philosophy, Epictetus, insecure despite all your fatherly concern for me, Epaphroditus. She fills that emptiness.”

“So poetry, philosophy, and friendship cannot compete with unrequited love?” said Martial.

“Not unrequited love, only unfulfilled—for the time being, anyway.”

Epictetus nodded. “If you’ve found contentment in a chaste love affair, you should strive to maintain the relationship just as it is. The happiness that comes from physical consummation is fleeting.”

“All happiness is fleeting,” said Martial. “Life is precarious. Everything changes. Look at the four of us, growing older year by year.”

“Yet we’ve all managed to remain unmarried,” said Epaphroditus with a laugh.

“Only that fellow never changes.” Epictetus nodded toward the statue of Melancomas. “The young boxer is as perfect now as he was the day Epaphroditus unveiled him.”

“And as empty of all desires!” Martial laughed. “Perhaps we should be envious of Melancomas here. While everything around him changes, he never ages, and he is never troubled by hunger or sorrow or longing. Perhaps Medusa wasn’t such a monster after all, when she turned men into stone. Maybe she was doing those men a favor by freeing them from suffering and decay. On the other hand, Pygmalion lusted for a statue and
brought her to life, and that went rather well; according to Ovid, they lived happily ever after. So we are left with a puzzle: is it better to turn a man to stone, or bring stone to life?”

“I think you may have found a subject worthy of a poem,” said Epaphroditus.

“No, the paradox is too subtle for my audiences. Rich patrons want a quick setup, a clever allusion or two—preferably obscene—and then a smashing punch line. No, I think my Medusa-versus-Pygmalion idea would be better suited to one of those learned discourses by our friend Dio. Imagine the convoluted argument he could spin, evoking all sorts of metaphors and obscure historical references. Say, has anyone heard from Dio lately?”

“I received a new discourse,” said Epaphroditus, “only yesterday. . . .” His voice trailed off.

“What! And you’re only just now mentioning it? Come, read it aloud,” said Martial.

“I only had time to quickly scan it. I’m not sure . . .”

“Don’t tell me it’s no good,” said Martial. “Has the poor exile lost his wit, stuck in Sarmizegetusa?”

“No, it’s not that. To be candid, I’m not sure it’s safe to keep the thing. It may be . . . seditious.”

“Read it quickly then, and afterward we’ll burn it.” Martial laughed.

Epaphroditus smiled uneasily. Lucius knew what he was thinking but would not say aloud: none of them completely trusted Martial any longer, because of his favored status with the emperor. Martial hardly seemed the type to betray old friends, but Epaphroditus had learned to be cautious over the years. It was one thing to gossip about the emperor’s love life—everyone from saltmongers to senators did that—but it was something else to read aloud a work by a banished philosopher.

“I don’t mean that the discourse is overtly seditious,” said Epaphroditus. “Dio is far too subtle for that. But this work could be seen as . . . teasing the emperor.”

“You’ve set my curiosity ablaze,” said Martial. “What’s the subject?”

“Hair.”

“What?”

“Hair. A learned discourse on hair and its role in history and literature.”

They all laughed. Domitian was notoriously sensitive about his premature baldness. In his younger days he had been famously vain about his chestnut mane, and once, as a gift to a friend, he had even written a monograph on his secrets for hair care. After Domitian’s ascension to power, copies of the treatise proliferated overnight; every literate person in Roma had read it, but no one dared to mention it in the author’s presence. Was Dio’s encomium on hair meant to mock the balding emperor who had exiled him?

“Even the emperor cannot avoid the ravages of time,” observed Martial. He rose and circled the statue. “But our friend Melancomas shall never grow bald, or fat, or wrinkled, and if his lustrous hair should fade, it can always be repainted. How I envy his unchanging perfection! Ah, well, if our host is not going to share that new discourse from Dio, I’m off. I should get a bit of work done before the sun sets. Maybe I can make something of that notion about Pygmalion and Medusa after all. Or perhaps I’ll write a letter to Dio and give him the idea as a gift.”

“I’ll come with you.” Epictetus reached for his crutch and got to his feet with some difficulty. “I dine tonight with a prospective new patron. He wants to meet at the Baths of Titus, so I’d better be off. Are you leaving as well, Pinarius?”

Lucius began to rise, but Epaphroditus touched his arm.

“No, Lucius, stay a bit longer.”

When they were alone, Lucius looked expectantly at his host. “You look worried, Epaphroditus.”

“I am.” The older man sighed. “By all the gods, Lucius, what do you think you’re doing?”

“What are talking about, Epaphroditus?”

“I know the identity of your mystery woman.”

“How?”

“Lucius, Lucius, I’ve known you since you were a boy! Have you ever been able to keep a secret from me?”

Only about the role that Sporus played in Nero’s death,
thought Lucius, but he said nothing and let Epaphroditus continue.

“Even before you spoke of her chastity, I knew who she must be. I’ve seen the two of you when you meet in public—the stiff greeting, the averted gazes, the intentional distance you keep between you. And I happen to know that she was absent from Roma during the period you spoke of. I must admit, I find it ironic that the vow she would not keep for a goddess, she will keep for a man. I won’t say her name aloud—what slaves don’t overhear, they can’t repeat—but you know whom I mean. Am I right?”

Lucius gazed at the Flavian Amphitheater, which was surrounded by scaffolds and cranes; a new tier was being added to accommodate even more spectators. “Yes, you’re right.”

Epaphroditus shook his head. “Lucius, Lucius! What a terrible risk you’re taking. When I think of my promise to your father, to look after you—”

“I’m a grown man now and responsible for myself, Epaphroditus. Your promise to my father was long ago discharged.”

“Still, the danger—”

“We were always very careful, very discreet. I’m not even seeing her anymore. We love each other at a distance.”

Epaphroditus shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “You don’t understand the gravity of the situation. Events are about to take place that will affect us all.”

“Events?”

“I didn’t want to talk about this in front of . . . the others.”

“In front of Martial, you mean?”

“Or Epictetus, either. Or even you, for that matter.” Epaphroditus paused to collect his thoughts. To Lucius he suddenly looked quite old, and more worn with cares than Lucius had seen him in many years. “You know I still have friends in the imperial household, even after so many changes and so many years. Sometimes I hear about things before they happen. My sources demand my utmost discretion, so usually I keep what I know to myself. Yes, I keep things even from you, Lucius. But there’s no point in shielding you now, seeing the danger you’re in. Domitian is about to revive the office of censor. He intends to assume the powers of the magistracy himself, permanently.”

“Didn’t his father do the same?”

“Yes, for a limited time and for a specific purpose. Vespasian conducted a census. That is one of the traditional functions of the censor, but it is not the function which interests Domitian.”

“I don’t understand. What else does a censor do?”

“Lucius, Lucius! Did you learn nothing of history when you were growing up? I know your father supplied the very best tutors for you.”

Lucius shrugged. “Why bother to learn about the institutions of the long-dead Republic, when all power now resides in the hands of one man and the rest of us count for nothing?”

Epaphroditus stifled his exasperation. “Once upon a time, when Roma was ruled by the Senate, the censor wielded great power—in some ways he was the most powerful man in the Republic, because he was responsible for keeping the official list of citizens, and it was the citizens who elected the magistrates. People didn’t vote as individuals, but in various blocks, determined by their wealth and other indicators of status. The censor determined in which block a man voted. That was important, because the voting blocks of the elite counted for more than those of the common rabble. And the censor could strike a citizen from the rolls altogether, which meant that citizen lost his right to vote.”

“And why might a censor do such a thing?”

“If a man committed a criminal offense, for example. Or, more to the point, if the man was guilty of offending public morals.”

“And who was the judge of that?”

“The censor, of course. And so, stemming from his duty to keep the voting rolls, the censor acquired another duty: to maintain public morals. If the censor declared a man guilty of immorality, he could not only strike that man from the voting rolls, but could deprive him of other rights, even throw him out of the Senate. The censorship began with a high purpose, but quickly devolved into a political tool, a way to punish enemies and destroy careers.”