The Bull Slayer

CHAPTER Six

A week later

The 5th day before the Kalends of October

“Got herself pregnant by her slave? What a little fool!”

“I can hardly believe it of her, the mousey thing.”

“It’s true. Why else did Fabricius send her back to Rome?”

“That man! No wonder she played around.”

“Well, ladies, be honest. How many of us have tried it on with a slave—thought about it anyway?”

“These wretched Bithynians? I’d rather do it with a donkey!”

“Now, Nubians. When we were stationed in Alexandria I had six Nubian litter bearers.”

“They carried you by day and you carried them by night?”

“Ask me no questions.”

“Faustilla, you’re terrible!”

“I wish I were in Alexandria. Or Antioch, or anyplace but here!”

“My husband goes to Antioch on business twice a year, never takes me, though.”

“Well, my astrologer assures me I’m going to travel someplace exciting.”

“He probably means Dacia. That’s exciting, you can dodge arrows.”

“Oops! Sorry.”

“Memmia, you’re soused already. You there, whatever your name is, come here and mop this up and pour us more wine. Why do you stand there like a post?”

“Well, what else is there to do but drink? Where is Calpurnia, anyway? I’m starving. Late to her own party, what manners!”

“She’s an odd one, no mistake. Too quiet.”

“Stuck up, I say. The way she looks at you, you don’t know what she’s thinking.”

“I like him, though. Sense of humor, anyway. Not like mine.”

“I don’t know. My husband says he’s all talk and no action.”

“Can I ask, does anyone know a doctor they can trust? I’m at my wit’s end.”

“What, is your youngest sick again?”

“The poor thing. Children! We go through torture to bring them into the world just to worry ourselves sick over them. I swear by Juno I think I’d rather be childl—“

“Ssh! She’s coming!”

“Please forgive me, ladies. I’ve been all morning with my tutor, we lost track of the time.” Calpurnia, out of breath from racing up the stairs, settled herself on her couch in the small upstairs dining room.”

“You’re taking it quite seriously, Greek.” This was Faustilla, the wife of Pliny’s staff officer Nymphidius, a ribald old lady who had been born in Claudius’ reign. She gave Calpurnia an indulgent smile. “I mean we all speak it enough to talk to the cook but why on earth do you want to go reading Homer, or whatever he’s set you to.”

In fact, Timotheus was dragging her through the Odyssey’s archaic Greek line by line, which was not what she wanted at all, but she couldn’t persuade the man to simply talk to her. She wouldn’t admit this to Faustilla, though. “It keeps my mind occupied for one thing. Haven’t you ever wondered why Latin and Greek have exactly the same words for father and mother but quite different ones for son and daughter?”

This was met by blank stares. Clearly, they hadn’t.

“Timon, you can start serving the fish course,” Calpurnia said in painfully correct Greek to her head waiter. She had taken a lesson from her husband and made it her first task to learn the name of every servant in the household.

Such airs! Fannia smiled to her couch-mate, Cassia, behind her hand. Conversation subsided while plates were passed and the women settled down to eat. Calpurnia and Pliny had brought their own chef with them from Rome but he had fallen ill en route and they had been forced to leave him behind in Athens. She had had to find a local replacement when they arrived. The man came with good references, probably forged. The roast hares were underdone, the grilled smelts were burnt black. Everyone tried not to notice.

Fabia, Balbus’ wife, belched and spoke around a mouthful of food: “Poor you, Calpurnia, living in this shambles. Can’t the governor requisition better quarters?” She gestured with a thick arm at the peeling fresco on the wall. It was unkind, and meant to be. Malice glittered in her eyes.

Calpurnia would not allow this woman to make her angry. She forced a smile. “Soon to be repaired. I’ve made my own sketches for a mythical landscape, children riding on the backs of centaurs, a temple in the distance. I’ll paint some of it myself, workmen will do the rest.”

Silence. The women were dumbfounded. Cassia, an engineer’s wife, wrinkled her small nose and giggled. “The smell of that hot wax, the mess, really!” Embarrassed laughter around the table. An arch, knowing look from Fabia that said What do you expect?

The luncheon was on the verge of being a disaster. How Calpurnia loathed these gatherings, and yet she felt compelled to go through with them. She had endured many such occasions in Rome too, but there she was one senator’s wife among many, not required to play a role that felt too big for her. This was different. She felt their resentment, their envy. And she was all alone, without her husband’s boundless good humor and sociability to give her cover.

“We’ve heard that you and your husband are on intimate terms with our emperor and his wife,” said Cassia brightly. What’s she like?”

“Yes, tell us about Plotina,” the others chorused.

“She’s very nice,” said Calpurnia.

“And…?”

“A very kind and sensible woman.”

The wives couldn’t conceal their disappointment.

“Well, what about him, Trajan?” Cassia pressed on. “People say he drinks too much and is too fond of little boys.”

“People say a great many things they know nothing about,” Calpurnia replied. She knew she was handling this wrong, could see the resentment in their faces. Give them what they want, she told herself, be one of them, unbend. But she could not.

Then Fannia, the wife of Caelianus, Pliny’s chief clerk, gave a little cough. “And how is your husband, dear? Have you heard anything from him?” Fannia was the closest Calpurnia had to an ally among this nest of bewigged and bejeweled vipers. Unfortunately, her husband’s status was lower than the other husbands represented here, and status, among them, was everything.

“I’ve had one letter from him, a short one. He’s terribly busy.” Gods, how she missed him! She had written him four letters in the past week.

“Enjoy it while you can,” said Faustilla, sucking her fingers. “Nymphidius hasn’t written me a single word. See if I care. He can stay away as long as he likes.” Her husband was traveling with Pliny.

“You mean to say you don’t miss him at night?” This was Memmia, who had managed in the meantime to spill another glass of wine on herself. Her tongue darted out over her lips wickedly.

“Why, the old man hasn’t had it up in years. And I’ve got my ‘pacifier’, if you know what I mean.”

“Hush, Faustilla, you’re awful!”

Faustilla was not to be deterred. Her old, pouched eyes twinkled. “Had it made for me years ago by a shoemaker. This long, thick as your wrist, stuffed with wool, leather as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Borrow it any time you like.”

“Calpurnia, dear, excuse us, some of us aren’t fit company,” Atilia interrupted hastily. “And now, my dear, I’m going to presume on our short acquaintance.” She gestured for silence, turned to the others, and explained, “Calpurnia and I met quite by chance in front of the temple of Asclepius the day Pancrates returned and then again a few nights ago at Fabia’s. Well, ladies, I have a surprise for all of you—remember, Calpurnia dear, I told you I could arrange it. I daresay you didn’t believe me. I’ve asked Pancrates to join us here today. Oh, my husband and I know him well. He’s truly a marvel. And he’s so anxious to meet you, Calpurnia. He’s in the foyer now.”

Before she could be stopped, Atilia was up and out the door. She returned a moment later with her prize. Calpurnia half rose from her couch in anger. How dare the stupid woman bring this charlatan into her home! But the wives gathered around him, all talking at once in happy wonderment. He ignored them all but, striding across the room to Calpurnia’s couch, he stood before her and inclined his head. She had had barely a glimpse of him that day when he entered the temple to the wild cheers of his devotees. She only remembered the snake with its glittering scales that enveloped his shoulders like some obscene garment.

Now, at close range—and without the snake, the gods be thanked!—she saw him entire, and felt the force of the man. He was tall and dressed in a long-sleeved, unbelted tunic of some delicate white stuff that hung straight from his shoulder to his ankle. His black hair spilled in ringlets down his back, he had a hooked nose that curved toward his chin, his matted beard was streaked with gray. His complexion was swarthy like one of the southern barbarians (he accomplished this by staining himself with the juice of almonds) and, like them, his feet were bare. His bright, black eyes, sunk in sockets like twin caves, moved constantly as though seeing things hidden from others. He fixed them on her. “Lady, I will speak to you alone.” It was a voice that presumed, that commanded.

Calpurnia’s mind raced. Should she order the servants to throw him out? But plainly this man was not just some street corner diviner; he had an enormous following in the town. What might they do if she treated their oracle with disrespect? Then, too, Atilia, insufferable as she was, must not be slighted. Her husband was a pillar of the expatriate business community, a group they needed to conciliate. What would Pliny do? No matter, she was in charge, she must decide. He looked at her unblinking, waiting for her answer. And, in spite of herself, she was curious. Even if he was a howling madman, she thought, an interview with him was preferable to prolonging this gruesome lunch.

“Come this way,” she said, standing up. Seven pairs of envious eyes followed them out of the room.

She led him to her studio, which was just down the hall; a room fragrant with wax and oil, cluttered with jars of pigments, braziers, easels, a table littered with brushes and spatulas, a pair of stools. They stood and faced each other. His dark eyes searched her face. “You don’t like them, do you, those women? You shouldn’t. You are more intelligent than they are, you have a purer spirit. I feel it.”

Calpurnia laughed nervously. “Is this your stock in trade, flattery? I imagine no one quarrels with you if you tell them only pleasant things. You know nothing about me, sir.”

Pancrates ignored this. He let his eyes wander around the little room, examining the pictures, in various states of completion, that sat on easels and hung from the walls. “Why do you paint? A painting is nothing but the shadow of a shadow.”

She said nothing. She wasn’t going to argue with this man about her art.

“And why do you paint only children? As I was coming in, I met a little boy racing down the corridor on his hobbyhorse. You’ve painted his face here, and here on these Cupids. Now that I look, I see him everywhere. But he isn’t you son, is he?”

How could he know this? “Who are you?” she demanded. “Where do you come from?”

“I see I’ve angered you. Forgive me, lady.” For the first time he smiled, showing a wide space between his front teeth. “Where I come from is no matter, but where I have been. I have travelled in India. I have seen the martichora with its human head and its long tail that shoots arrows. And I have seen the pygmies and the men who stand on their heads and shade themselves with their feet. I have lived with the Brahmans on top of their sacred hill and watched them rise into the air when they pray to the Sun. And I have seen the giant bearded serpents that live in that land and I have brought one home with me. With the aid of its spirit, I have advised kings and princes in every region of the world.”

His long, brown fingers wove patterns in the air as he spoke; she could hardly tear her eyes from them. His voice was deep, thrilling. If Calpurnia’s Greek had been better she would have caught a whiff of the wharf, the alley in his accent.

“So,” he said,” I have told you something about myself. Now I will tell you about yourself. I sense sorrow in you—sorrow connected with a physical ailment.” He touched his hands to his forehead. “Here? No.” Keeping his eyes on her face, he lowered his hands to his chest. “Here?” The hands slid down his chest. “The stomach? No.” They slid lower, level with his hips. Suddenly she could not breathe.

“Ah! I thought so. You lost your baby and now you are barren.”

Stunned, she started to turn away but he held her chin and made her look at him. She felt herself trembling.

“Tell me.” His voice like the voice of a god.

“I was fourteen…just a girl.” Her breath came in sobs. “I didn’t know what was the matter. And then the pain, the blood…I nearly died. And since then…we’ve tried everything. Doctors, spells, potions, I’ve slept in temples for healing dreams, sacrificed to Juno and Diana, Isis. And all the time, my husband, so kind, so patient. He has never reproached me, but I know, I know what he feels. We don’t talk about it.” Her shoulders worked with grief.

While she spoke he kept his eyes on her, his head tilted slightly to the left. They had begun by standing an arm’s length apart. She realized now that they were sitting, facing each other, almost knee to knee. She didn’t remember how that happened. And she was speaking in her own language now—Greek abandoned—but he understood her. Finally, she swallowed hard and wiped her face with the fold of her palla. She felt naked in front of him. What sorcery had he used to make her tell him what she had never told any stranger?

“There are cures for your condition that the Brahmans know.”

“No! Stop it! There is no cure. I’m not a child anymore to believe such things.”

He smiled and shrugged. “We’ll speak of it another time. I will leave you with a happy thought. Someone new will soon come into your life.”

She laughed harshly—angry at herself and him. “Is that all your wisdom? We’ve only been here a week, someone new comes into my life every day.”

He stood up abruptly. “Thank you, lady. I’ll see myself out. If you wish to see me again, I am at your service.”

“Wait—”

But he was gone.

She sat a long time with her head in her hands, feeling—what? Shaken, violated, hopeful? Had she just met someone extraordinary or only a clever fraud? She could not face going back to the dining room, to those hens who would peck at her, who would quiz her. As if in answer to her unspoken command, Ione appeared in the doorway. “Tell them I’m not feeling well. They may leave whenever they wish. Then come back to me.” The freedwoman nodded and went out.

As Pancrates left the palace there was a smile on his lips. No knowledge is ever wasted.

***

The big covered wagon swayed and jolted, axles screeching, harness creaking as the mule team hauled it to the top of the long ridge that lay across the road from Prusa to Nicaea. Pliny tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Hold up. Let the animals rest. Let us all rest a bit. Help me down.” Even on a good Roman road like this, travel was exhausting. The driver jumped down from his seat, propped the stepladder against the front wheel and reached out to take the governor’s hand. Behind them a train of a dozen wagons—an entire household on wheels—and a flanking squadron of cavalry sent up a cloud of dust into the brilliant blue sky.

Pliny stretched, flexed his shoulders, stamped his feet to get the blood flowing. They had been on the road since dawn and the sun was now high in the sky. “You know, this country reminds me of home,” he said to Zosimus, who had climbed down beside him. “Mountains, gorges, pine forests, the bracing air,” he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, “just like Comum. How I wish I were there! It’s been too long.”

Nymphidius trotted up on his horse. “We’ll be lucky to reach the city by nightfall, sir. Up one blasted hill and down the next.” The scenery had no charms for him.

“Nevertheless, call a half hour halt. And Zosimus, fetch me down my folder and a camp stool.”

He spread his papers out on his knees, meticulous notes that described the unfolding disaster of the province’s economy: everywhere new theaters, public baths, colonnades, aqueducts, all badly planned, unfinished, and left in ruins, leaving nothing behind but a welter of accusations and indictments for corruption which he, sitting on his tribunal hour after weary hour had to adjudicate. He was already sick to death of it, and he had only just started. After a few moments, he pushed it all away in disgust. “No. Zosimus, get me my writing kit and ask a messenger to come here. I owe Calpurnia a letter.”

And Pliny drifted into pleasant contemplation of his happy and capable partner, safe at home.