Roman Games(4)
In another mansion, across the city, the same obligatory morning ritual was in progress.
Gaius Plinius Secundus, Roman senator, lion of the court of probate, currently acting vice-prefect of the city, arose well-rested from his bed and took his breakfast: the bread dipped, not drowned, in wine, the pear neatly sectioned, a few figs, and all arranged on the tray with his napkin folded just so, the way he liked it.
This small repast over, a slave buckled on his red leather senatorial shoes while another, an elderly man of dignified bearing, commenced to wrap him in a dazzling, purple-striped toga, not releasing him until he was satisfied that every fold was perfect. This was the man’s single job and he performed it with great state. Even on a sweltering September morning like this one, the ridiculous garment was mandatory for Romans at the salutatio. So the mos maiorum, the way of the ancestors, commanded: those ancient, grim shepherd-warriors who could think of no more fitting badge of citizenship than to wrap themselves in a woolen blanket from neck to ankle and damn the weather. Already, his clients gathered, in the atrium, were itching and sweating in their own togas, and all, patron and clients alike, would have to endure this for an hour.
What an inexpressibly tedious chore, thought Pliny to himself, not for the first time, as one by one the family freedmen together with a clamorous multitude of flatterers, place-seekers, seedy literary gentlemen, and the merely hungry, bustled forward with hearty looks to kiss his hand and receive their food basket and a few coins.
As though from a great distance, Pliny heard himself murmuring inanities: “What a fine young fellow! Do you go to school?” He smiled benignly on a squirming boy thrust at him by an eager father.
A chore, but dignitas demanded it. A man of his position must have clients thronging his atrium, and clients must have patrons to defend them in the courts, whisper in a magistrate’s ear, commission a poem, dower a homely daughter. The morning salutatio was one of the duties pertaining to rank, and Pliny was a man who took his rank and his duty seriously. And every so often, he reminded himself, there came along some promising young man from his native district, just setting his foot on the path to advancement, who deserved the counsel, wealth, and connections that an up-and-coming senator like Pliny could offer.
Though he ached to stand up and massage his neck, Pliny stifled a yawn and kept his stately pose, fondly conscious of the eyes that admired him from behind the door curtain—the dear girl, so curious, so shy. He squared his shoulders and looked magisterial.
At last, the clock slave called the second hour of the day and the crowd began to shuffle out. He watched their backs retreating through the vestibule and out into the street. Fewer clients nowadays, he reflected, sought their patron’s advice or his blessing on their endeavors as they once had done in the old republican days. Now they came mostly for the handout, the money that was just enough to keep food in their bellies for another day. They would all be back again tomorrow, and the whole tedious degrading routine gone through again. At least, with the Senate and courts in recess, he would not need to be accompanied by a horde of them throughout his day. What a relief!
As the door closed behind the last of them, a plump young girl emerged from the side chamber where she had been hiding. She looked up at him with a grave and gentle gaze, full of love and admiration. With her own hands she unwound his sweat-soaked toga and draped a light linen cloak over his shoulders. Pliny held her round chin between his fingers and gave her a tender, almost fatherly, kiss on the forehead.
But this fond moment was interrupted by a female slave bursting into the atrium, baskets of vegetables spilling from her arms. “It’s all over the market, Master,” the woman gasped. “Senator Verpa’s been murdered! Hacked to bloody pieces, they say. Troopers from the City Battalions are there already and have the slaves under guard. Thanks to the son, they say, not a single one got away…” She stopped to catch her breath.
There followed a moment of stunned silence while Pliny’s slaves stood stock still and exchanged fleeting looks. The girl turned wide eyes on Pliny. “Husband, what does it mean? Are we…?”
He checked her with a stern look. “Now Calpurnia, you’re not to think about it at all. There’s simply nothing to be afraid of. Do you hear me, my dear? That’s better. Helen, take your mistress into the garden and fetch her kitten or her sparrow or something, you know what to do. Go along, my darling, and put this completely out of your mind, completely out of your mind. You know you mustn’t excite yourself, not now.”
“Gaius, I’m your wife, I’ve a right…”