Roman Games(17)
The frail Statius, his skeletal form swathed in a thick and glistening toga, his white hair meticulously coifed, was just descending from his litter.
Martial, seeing no escape, greeted him with a wolfish grin. “Salve, Publius Papinius. You’ve been away from Rome so long I thought you were dead. Imagine my disappointment.”
The clients hummed like angry bees.
But Statius returned him a benevolent smile. “My dear Martial! What a delight! Our Lord and God invited me up for the holidays. I recited a new work of mine at a dinner he gave just last night. I must confess, I was gratified by his warm praise of it. And how are you? Still a poor man? Your toga’s quite worn out.” His lean fingers stroked it.
“Not as worn out as your culus.”
Statius was unruffled. “Let me make you a present of a new one.”
“No thanks. People will ask what I had to do to you to get it.”
Statius’ composure was beginning to crack just a little. “That tongue of yours will land you in trouble one day, my foul-mouthed friend.”
“What’s your tongue been getting into lately, some old hag’s crack?”
“Guttersnipe!” Statius snarled. “I know what eats at you night and day. Put it out of your mind. Our Lord and God is offended by your indecency. Send as many poems up to the palace as you like. I assure you they’re taken out with the trash. And your crude attempts at flattery make us all laugh.”
The old man’s hands were shaking, red spots were burned on each cheek. Martial was in hardly better condition.
“Out of my way! Must you block the road with this army of toadies?”
Statius, his voice thick with sarcasm, commanded, “Make way, make way there for Martial, Prince of Poets!”
“And so I am!” cried Martial as he shouldered his way through the crowd, feeling all their eyes on his back. It was a weak exit and he knew it. If he had been in a bad mood before, he was in a worse one now.
The Forum Romanum was by now packed with people, mostly out-of-towners, waiting to see the emperor, priests, and senators descend from the Capitolium. In front of the Rostra, a flurry of excitement broke out where a ragged street-corner haranguer, one of the Cynic breed, no doubt, was being hustled away by troopers of the City Battalions. The emperor’s relentless war against philosophers continued.
Martial mingled with the jostling crowd, while keeping a hand tight on his purse to ward off pickpockets, though indeed there wasn’t much in his purse but cobwebs. He searched the sea of faces for Diadumenus.
Diadumenus was fifteen years old, had skin like alabaster, long golden hair, and buttocks, round, white and smooth, that no woman’s could equal. And he was heartless. Martial longed for the dewy kisses which he granted just often enough to keep the poet forever in pursuit. How he ached for the boy! Hopeless to look for him in this mob. Anyway, he was probably still asleep in some rich man’s bed, his curls spread out prettily upon the pillow. Parades didn’t interest Diadumenus much.
The crowd dispersed, the hungry to the butcher shops, where beef would be cheap and plentiful today, the rest to the magnificent open-air theaters for a day of entertainment. Actors were celebrities almost on a par with charioteers and gladiators, and Romans were eager connoisseurs of the art. Each boasted his own noisy claque of supporters. For those who couldn’t afford the price of a ticket there were still the street-corner buskers, block parties, and neighborhood processions. Domitian had banned the cruder forms of pantomime, the sexy, scurrilous burlesques that had so often led to rioting and sedition. Still, the comedies and farces provided ribaldry enough for most tastes.
Martial debated with his grumbling stomach, but decided at last for the theater. That would occupy his day, he’d eat a sausage or two during the intermission, and then it would be time to head for the baths and the serious business of hunting up a dinner invitation.
Chapter Seven
The same day.
The seventh hour of the day.
“Name and unit, centurion?” Brusque tone, Pliny admonished himself. Assert your authority at once.
“Titus Ursius Valens, sir.” The officer sketched a salute. “Twelfth Cohort, City Battalions.” He was a bristle-headed, big-boned man and stood a head taller than Pliny. “And your name would be, sir, if I might ask?”
The tone was faintly insolent—the professional policeman suffering the meddling amateur. Pliny ignored the question.
Gaius Plinius Secundus was thirty-five years old but had the smooth, boyish face of a much younger man. It was not a handsome face but a pleasant one: pink cheeks and mild blue eyes. His family hailed from the Lake Como region, where Celtic blood mingled with the Italian. It accounted for his rosy complexion and the light brown hair that lay in soft curls across his forehead and neck. He worried that his appearance lacked the gravitas of a Roman senator and so he frowned whenever he wanted to impress. He was frowning now. “Where are your men posted, centurion?”