We sat on the parapet of one of the smaller fish pools. The fat inhabitants swam up in hopes of food and then, disappointed, resumed their endless circling around a statue of Neptune in the pool’s center.
Julia untied the ribbon and unrolled the scroll. It was made of the finest Egyptian papyrus, the writing done with a reed pen using red ink of excellent quality. It was in Greek, the writing precise, arranged in short lines. I read a few verses aloud and glanced at Julia to see if her face had reddened, but she was too sophisticated for that.
“This,” she commented, “is some of the most heated erotic verse since Sappho.”
I frowned in fake puzzlement. “So it seems, but why would one want to lick a doe’s hoof?”
“As you know perfectly well,” she said, “in erotic verse, the doe’s hoof is a traditional symbol for the female genitals. All these other symbols are similarly inclined. Rather too many of them for good taste, but the verse is excellent.”
“Do you think it’s original or a copy of some poet’s work?”
“I don’t recognize the poem, but the style resembles the Corinthian.”
“It’s addressed to one Chryseis,” I said.
“Of course. It’s traditional to give your lover a pseudonym in such poetry. Everyone knows that Catullus’s Lesbia was really Clodia.”
“It was in the slave girls’ room,” I pointed out. “Do you suppose it might have been meant for one of them? They’re all attractive girls, and some local swain might be paying court to one of them.”
“Don’t be dense, dear. Don’t you remember who Briseis was?”
“Oh. Right.” In the Iliad, of course, Briseis was the captive girl seized from Achilles by Agamemnon, setting off the chain of events that ended with the funeral of Hector.
Chryseis was the daughter of Apollo’s priest.
* * *
5
IN THE EVENING, WITH THE COOL OFFSHORE breeze making the flames of the new-lit torches flutter, we attended the funeral of Gorgo, daughter of Diocles. The family tomb was located beside the road to Baiae, about a mile from the temple. A large contingent of the local Greek community had turned out, along with all the usual notables.
It is not Greek custom (or Roman, for that matter) to give women elaborate funerals, especially if they are not married and mothers. Still, it was a simple, dignified ceremony and I found it more congenial than the elaborate sort. The quietly sobbing slaves were infinitely preferable to the wailings of hired professional mourners. Their grief seemed to be genuine.
Diocles gave the eulogy, speaking of Gorgo as a virtuous, blameless girl, one who had never caused gossip or given her father (the mother, apparently being long dead) any cause for displeasure, worthy to bear the
name of the famous Spartan queen, and so on in this vein. It was a conventional oration, but most funeral eulogies are.
When the final words were pronounced, Diocles took a torch from an attendant and touched it to the pyre. This, too, was modest, merely enough wood to cremate the body decently, not an ostentatious construction of logs stacked twenty feet high. But the wood had been soaked in cedar oil, and the slaves threw frankincense onto the flames by the double handful from bags donated, along with the soaked wood, by Manius Silva.
When the ceremonies were over, I invited the attendees to partake of some refreshment. Earlier in the day I had had slaves from the villa set up tables near the tomb, beneath an awning in case of rain. There we served sweet cakes and honeyed wine, traditional Roman funeral fare at least since the obsequies of Scipio Africanus, more than 130 years before. (In Scipio’s day, these sweets were esteemed great luxuries.)
“It’s good to have the facilities of the villa,” Julia said. “We’ve never before been able to afford this sort of liberality.” She wore a dark stola, with her palla covering her head. Most of the ladies present were thus attired. Even the usually flamboyant Quadrilla, Jocasta, and Rutilia dressed somberly.
“I can’t argue with that,” I agreed. Being able to live and act like a grandee has its attractions, and I warned myself not to grow too fond of its seductions. Once accustomed to such a life, one begins to make excuses to prolong it. It becomes easy to overlook ethical lapses and to seek the favor of unworthy persons. It is, in short, deeply corrupting.
Of course, some men were not at all disturbed by the allure of corruption, as witness my benefactor, Quintus Hortensius Hortalus. He’d made a career of corruption and done very well out of it.
Mopsus, the silk importer, came forward to thank us for our generosity. “Praetor, I know this raises your credit with the populace, and it was already high. Tell me, has the slaver’s son confessed yet?”