“It’s a shame that neither of you intends to move back to the city,” said Lucius, sipping a cup of water spiced with dried apple peel, cinnamon, and cloves. Wine had been poured for his guests, but Lucius, as always, abstained.
“There is no city like Roma,” said Epictetus, who had arrived the preceding night. “But my life now is the school I’ve founded in Nicopolis. The students are so bright and eager. They inspire me as much as I inspire them. And there’s something to be said for living in an environment where Greek is spoken from dawn to dusk, without a word of Latin being uttered. I feel more at home there than I’ve ever felt anywhere else.”
“And you, Dio? How can you leave Roma now that you’ve returned?” Looking at the sophist, Lucius was pointedly reminded of the passage of time. Dio was now in his sixties and looked much older than when Lucius had last seen him. Of course, Lucius, at fifty-two, probably looked much older to Dio.
“I was delighted when Nerva became emperor and lifted my banishment,” said Dio. “Roma I longed to see again, but I was even more pleased by the fact that I could at last return to Prusa. With so many changes afoot, I feel that my place is in my native land, looking after the interests of my fellow Bithynians. And it’s so lovely and quiet in Prusa. I think my long absence from Roma has cured me of it. I couldn’t ask for more comfortable accommodations than those you’ve provided, Lucius, but out there in the streets of Roma, how noisy it is, and how crowded!”
“And how smelly! Don’t forget the smells,” said Lucius’s third guest. It had occurred to Lucius that his visit from the two philosophers was the perfect opportunity to effect a reconciliation with Martial, though “reconciliation” was perhaps too strong a word. Lucius and the poet had never had a falling-out; they had simply grown distant in recent years. Determined to set aside any bitterness he felt about Martial’s relationship with Domitian, Lucius had invited the poet to gather with their mutual friends.
“Ah, but you have a good reason to live in Roma,” said Dio, “to enjoy all the accolades you’re receiving on the publication of your collected poems, which was long overdue. At last your genius is being recognized beyond the – how shall I say it? – the elite circles where it was previously enjoyed.”
“Fah!” said Martial. He, too, had aged considerably in recent years. Though he was a bit younger than Dio, he looked older, probably due to the over-indulgent style of living he had enjoyed at the court of Domitian. “Accolades? What do I care for accolades? Accolades will not pay my rent, which has just gone up, by the way. Why is it that every time there’s a change of emperor, the cost of living goes up? I’m leaving Roma as soon as I can settle my affairs. And why not? I’ve had all the boys in this city worth having, or at least all the ones in my price range. I’m retiring to Spain, the land of my birth, where both the rents and the boys are said to be very cheap.”
“Our new emperor was also born in Spain,” noted Lucius. “They say Trajan is the first emperor to be foreign-born.”
“And why not?” said Dio. “Having seen a great deal of the empire and the lands beyond in recent years, I think it will be a good thing for Roma to have a emperor who was born outside Italy. Though I must say I was greatly saddened by the death of Nerva. He was a good man, and a true lover of philosophy. How delighted I was when I heard that he took a vow to kill no senators. And I was even more delighted when I heard his declaration that Domitian’s so-called House of the Flavians would henceforth be known as the House of the People. That sort of thing sets a tone, if nothing else. To be sure, Nerva was old and frail, and the demands of his office were probably too much for him. We can only hope that his successor will be half as good a man.”
“Trajan is a military man,” said Lucius, “and widely travelled, with experience in Syria and on the German and Dacian frontiers. Nerva chose him to please the Praetorians, who insisted that he put a capable commander in the line of succession. Since Nerva was childless, he acquiesced and picked Trajan.”
“Let’s hope that sets a precedent,” said Dio. “Succession by bloodline did not prove very successful. From Augustus we descended to Nero; from Vespasian we plummeted to Domitian. Perhaps if we can settle on some more rational method for choosing an emperor’s successor, the empire and everyone in it will be better off.”
“Just make sure all the emperors are childless,” quipped Martial, “like old Nerva – or like Trajan, for that matter. Poor Plotina! Trajan stays so busy chasing after boys, one wonders if he ever beds that horse-faced wife of his at all.”
“From what I’ve heard about her, Plotina can take care of herself,” said Lucius. “She’s said to be quite formidable.”
“Well, soon enough we shall behold the imperial couple with our own eyes,” said Martial. After more than a year of settling affairs on the German and Dacian frontiers, this was the day Trajan was to make his official entry into Roma. “I presume we’ll all go down to the Forum together later, to gawk at Trajan’s arrival along with everyone else in the city?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” said Dio.
“If my leg will allow it,” said Epictetus.
“Didn’t you write a poem in anticipation of the event?” said Lucius. He asked out of politeness, to allow Martial the opportunity to recite from his work, but the poet reacted with a sour expression.
“I did indeed, and I sent it to the new emperor, hoping to please him. As yet, I’ve received no reply.”
Lucius nodded. In other words, he thought, Martial had attempted to ingratiate himself with the new regime, and had been rebuffed. No wonder he was leaving Roma. “Still, I’m sure we’d all love to hear what you wrote.”
“Oh, very well,” said Martial, who needed little encouragement. He stood and cleared his throat.
Happy, happy those blessed by Fortune to behold the arrival of the new leader whose brow dazzles with the light of northern constellations!
When will the day come? When will the route be thronged with the lovely ladies of Roma perched in every tree and window along the Flaminian Way?
Come soon, longed-for day! Come clouds of distant dust, rising from the road to foretell the approach of Caesar!
Then shall every citizen and richly clad foreign delegate go forth to exclaim as one, with joy, “He comes!”
The others clapped politely as Martial took a bow. He returned to his couch and drank thirstily from his cup. “And now the day has come,” he said. “I wonder what sort of chariot Trajan will be riding. Some ornately gilded wonder, or something more austere and warlike, to emphasize his status as a military man? If he wants to look like a general, arriving on horseback would be best, I suppose. Or will he recline in a litter and be borne aloft by the prettiest boys he’s collected from the far corners of the empire?”
Lucius sighed. How vacuous and irritating Martial seemed to him. Lucius almost regretted inviting him, but Dio and Epictetus seemed genuinely to be enjoying the poet’s company. Perhaps a bit of wine was necessary to appreciate Martial’s wit.
“As you say, soon enough we’ll see for ourselves,” said Lucius. “But it’s too early yet. Hilarion will let us know when it’s time to go.”
“In the meantime, Lucius can tell us more about all the changes in Roma,” said Dio. “Simply to have had a sane man like Nerva in charge of the state must have seemed a miracle after the grim years of Domitian.”
“That’s true,” said Lucius. “After fourteen long years, I felt that I could breathe again.”
“Breathe all you want, if you can stand the smells of this city!” said Martial, wagging his finger. “Though I must admit, it became much easier to move about after they pulled down all those triumphal arches choking the streets, and got rid of the statues. There’s definitely more elbow room without a gilded Domitian on every corner. What happened to all those statues, anyway?”