“I sure am. What have you found out?”
“I have something here by the classical writer Seneca on Augustus and his daughter Julia Major. They call her Julia Major, incidentally, because she had a daughter named Julia, too. So its Julia Major and Julia Minor to distinguish between them. Quite a pair of floozies, by the way.”
“I know all that.”
“You do? Well, anyway, here’s what Seneca has to say: ‘Augustus learned that Julia Major had been accessible to scores of paramours . . . that the very forum and the rostrum from which her father had proposed a law against adultery had been chosen by the daughter for her debaucheries . . . there [she] sold her favors and sought the right to every indulgence. . . .’ Seneca goes on to tell how her father invoked the Lex Julia against her and had her banished.”
“I know all that. What have you found out about her daughter Julia Minor and the poet Ovid?”
“Ovid was evidently much involved with both ladies. According to his own writings, he was the lover of both. He escaped punishment in the case of the mother. But where the daughter was concerned, his gossipy poems regarding their relationship and her antics were finally his undoing.”
“How so?”
“Well, listen to this poem he wrote just before he published his famous Ars Amatoria.” Dudley quoted:
“About my temples go, triumphant bays!
“Conquered Corinna in my bosom lays:
“She whom her husband, guard, and gate, as foes
“(Lest Art should win her) firmly did enclose . . .
“No little ditched town, no lowly walls,
“But to my share a captive damsel falls.”
“I don’t get it. What has that poem to do with Julia the Younger?” I asked.
“To distinguish her from Julia the Elder, the daughter was also widely known as ‘Corinna.’ In this poem Ovid is actually bragging of possessing her and cuckolding the husband.”
“Sort of a kiss-and-tell poet,” I mused.
“What he had in talent, he lacked in diplomacy,” Dudley agreed. “But it wasn’t his personal attentions to the lady that finally did him in. It was his big mouth regarding her other peccadilloes. It seems one night when her husband was away she threw a sort of block party orgy and allowed the slaves to become involved in the action. As a matter of fact, she initiated the slaves herself. This was too juicy a tidbit for Ovid to resist and he spread the news around. The Romans were always touchy about their slaves. They’d already had the big Spartacus revolt and others. Augustus just naturally had to be concerned that sex between nobles and slaves might spur another revolt. Like her mother, Julia Minor had gone too far. Augustus banished her to Trimerus, a deserted island. And because Ovid blabbed, he was exiled to Tomis, a desolate settlement on the shores of the Black Sea. You see, Augustus was afraid Ovid would put the incident into one of his satiric poems and shake the throne even more.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Some time around 3 A.D.”
I Wondered what year I was in now. The bit with Julia Minor and the slaves—could that be the orgy Ovid and I had just left? If it was, then I was heading for more trouble.
“I think you’d better hurry up and get me out of here,” I told Dudley.
“I should live so long,” he sighed.
“Amen!”
“Papa Baapuh is trying to trace the break in the wiring,” he told me. “As soon as he fixes it, we’ll jump you again. Unless the Reds stop us.”
“The Chinese? Why should they interfere?”
“I’m not sure. We’ve had word from Putnam warning us that they’re suspicious about what we’re up to here. According to his info, there’s a troop of them on the way up to investigate. Red Guard soldiers, very tough.”
“Great! That’s all I need.”
“Just hold on, Steve. That’s what I’m doing. That’s all any of us can do.” Dudley signed off.
I took his advice. I held on for the next week. It wasn’t too hard. As a matter of fact, it was pretty luxurious living in Ovid’s villa as the poet’s guest. Indeed, the living was so easy it lulled my apprehensions. But a ravenous lion revived them.
The day I put my head in the lion’s mouth started out pretty much the same as the days that preceded it. A wine breakfast in bed served by Wallatzius and Echo, a warm bath scented with perfumed oils, a fresh-starched toga provided by my host, and I was ready to face the sunshiny Roman noon. Ovid was waiting for me when I descended to the patio of the villa.
“What’s on the agenda for today?” I greeted him.
“To the Colosseum to view the games. Have you ever been to the ‘Circus’?”
“The ‘Circus’?”
“Haven’t you read my Ars Amatoria?” There was some of the hurt pride of authorship in Ovid’s voice.
“Of course I have,” I hastened to reassure him. “But I’m afraid I don’t quite recall -”
“The ‘Circus’ is what I called the activities. Don’t you remember? I pointed out how it was an ideal place to heighten passion because of the sadistic enjoyment to be obtained from the life-and-death entertainment.” Ovid took a deep breath and quoted from his Ars Amatoria in sonorous tones:
“Love oft in that arena fights a bout.
“Then ’tis the looker-on who’s counted out.
“While chatting, buying a program, shaking hands,
“Or wagering on the match intent he stands,
“He feels the dart, and groaning ’neath the blow
“Himself becomes an item in the show.”
Ovid went on to tell me we were to join the Princess Julia Minor in the royal box at the games. Gossip that he was, he couldn’t resist detailing for me the sexual fillips the Princess added to the show. Her reputation was in tatters by the time we reached the high walls of the Colosseum.
Here Ovid paused to use a public convenience. I waited outside the little shack for him. Idly, I glanced at the graffiti scrawled on the wall there:
“MARK ANTONY WEARS MINI-SKIRTS!”
“STAMP OUT THE CENTURION REVIEW BOARD!”
“PAVE THE APPIAN WAY!”
“LEGALIZE PTOLEMY!”
“PHALLIC IS A SYMBOL!”
“BRING OUR BOYS HOME FROM EGYPT!”
“ROMULUS SUCKS WOLF-TIT!”
"VOTE ROW S-E-X!"
“CAESAR IS ALIVE AND WELL IN ALEXANDRIA!”
“DRUIDS ARE DRAGS!”
“STOP THE WAR IN GAUL!”
“JUPITER IS A LECH!”
“JUPITER IS DEAD!”
“BRUTUS DEFECTS!”
“ROME IS A FUN CITY!”
“WAS HE GLADIATOR?-—YOU BET HE WAS!”
“WHY DID CLEO FALL ON HER ASP?”
“CASSIUS IS A FINK."
“OLYMPUS IS FOR DROP-OUTS!”
“LOVED BEN!—-HA TED HUR!”
“BANANA MANNA!—-FLY NOW—LAY LATER!”
“MARS IS A WARMONGER!”
“OVID IS A YENTA!”
I pointed out this last one to the poet as he emerged from the johnny. He peered at it a moment and grinned wryly. “I recognize the handwriting,” he told me. “It’s the Princess Julia’s. Well, I’ll just show her!” He picked up a sharp rock and began carving up the wall. A small crowd of idlers collected around us to see what he was inscribing When he was finished he stood back to view his handiwork.