Roman Games(27)

A slave met him at the doorway, removed his shoes and gave him dining slippers to wear, and conducted him into the triclinium, where his host rose to greet him.

To his surprise, Martial found himself the only guest. “We dine intimately tonight,” said Pliny, “just my wife and my freedmen. Simple fare. No roast piglet stuffed with thrushes, no honeyed dormice, no sows’ udders. A ‘philosopher’s meal’ is my style.”

Martial, who relished sows’ udders, did his best to hide his disappointment.

“I feed my freedmen and my humblest guests the same food and wine I consume myself,” Pliny burbled, “I make no distinctions of class.”

“Admirable,” murmured the poet, wishing that Pliny fed his freedmen on mullet and Lucrine oysters.

“Recline here by me in the place of honor. I’ve long wanted to meet you, in fact. I’m a bit of a poet myself actually. Oh, I don’t publish. Just for my own amusement.”

The slaves brought honeyed wine and Pliny poured the customary libation to the Lares and Penates.

Martial gave him an appraising look. “You don’t include the emperor’s bust among your household gods?”

Pliny’s hand froze for an instant. Without looking at the poet, he said, “Do you?” Then they measured each other with their eyes. “Of course, I worship him—” they both said at once. Then both stopped. Then both smiled. It was a delicate, dangerous moment. Either one of them might have been a spy. “We must serve the emperor we have,” said Pliny carefully.

“Indeed we must,” said Martial. The moment passed. It would be all right.

While slaves carried in the first course, Pliny introduced his freedmen; there were three of them reclining on one couch. “This is Zosimus,” he indicated a thin, serious young man in his twenties. “He is my secretary and my most gifted Greek reader, and my trusted friend. And this is—but, ah, here she comes now!”

Leaning on her nurse’s arm, the heavily pregnant girl came into the room and eased herself onto the dining couch beside her husband.

Well, here’s a tasty morsel, thought Martial. Though his preference ran mostly to the other thing, the poet was an admirer of feminine beauty. He noted her lustrous dark eyes and her swelling breasts.

For her part, Calpurnia didn’t know what to make of this shaggy bear of a man with his flashing teeth and rolling eye. He was certainly unlike any other of her husband’s friends, being rather what she imagined an aging pirate might look like. She struggled with her shyness and risked a smile. “I am pleased to meet any friend of my husband’s. Are you new to our city?”

Though you would not have guessed it from his poems, Martial had a charming manner with women. He made her a low bow, then laughed. “I come from gold-bearing Tagus, from high-girt Bilbilis and the banks of rugged Salo, in short, from Spain. I came to Rome to seek fame and fortune as a writer, and Rome has grizzled my locks.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “The noise, the distractions drive me wild, and yet I can’t break away. The city gets in your blood. And though I am read all over Rome, nay, all over the Empire, it brings me no money. Fortune still eludes me.”

“You wish to be known at court, my friend?” Pliny broke in.

“That is my desire, sir.” The poet put on his serious face. “I’ve sent trunksful of verse up to the palace. I’ve praised the worthy Parthenius, I even dedicated half a dozen poems to little Earinus, though I blush to admit it.”

“You know your language is rather, ah, indelicate for the ears of this chaste court.”

“I’ve been told so once already today by that old fart Statius,” the poet replied. “However, I’ve lately written a whole book of poems praising the emperor, and all without a single word that would make your maiden aunt squirm. But I need someone to actually put it in his hands, don’t you see? I halfway believe that Statius intercepts my offerings.”

“Papinius Statius,” said Pliny stiffly, “happens to be a very dear friend of mine. I assure you, your suspicions are absurd. Nevertheless, when this Verpa business is over I’ll see what I can do for you.”

“I would be forever grateful, Patrone.”

“Now, now, no such word as that between us. You must consider me a friend.”

The first course was served and cleared away. During the interval Pliny urged his young wife to recite for them. “I mean if you’re feeling up to it, my dear. It’s her pregnancy,” he said in an aside to Martial, “she’s under doctor’s orders not to tire herself. Still, if you would…” He gazed at her hopefully. “I mentioned I write verses. Calpurnia sets them to music and accompanies herself on the lyre, with no schooling from a music teacher, but with affection, which is the best possible teacher.”