“Any witness can be made to talk, Lucius, unless he has a weak heart and dies first.”
Lucius felt the blood drain from his face. After a few mumbled words of farewell, he took his leave of Epaphroditus.
He walked aimlessly, his thoughts racing. The sun began to set. Shadows grew long. He found himself in the heart of the Forum, passing the round Temple of Vesta. The doors stood open. The light of the eternal hearthfire illuminated the marble interior with a soft orange glow. A shadow moved across the light; one of the Vestals was tending the flame. Was it Cornelia? He longed to run up the steps and look inside – the merest glimpse of her face would calm his racing heartbeat – but he forced himself to turn and walk on.
“Lucius, could you add more wood to the brazier?” Cornelia shivered inside her heavy cloak and drew it more tightly around her neck.
The little house on the Esquiline was unchanged since the last time they had met there, many months ago. Lucius had considered selling the house but could not bear to do so; nor did he rent it out. He had kept it vacant, and just as it was in the days when they were meeting regularly. A slave came occasionally to tend to the garden and to clear the cobwebs, and every so often Lucius visited the house, alone, to walk through the rooms and the garden, remembering the times he had spent here with Cornelia.
He could hardly believe she was here again.
The winter day was windy and overcast. Even at midday the room was full of shadows. Lucius fetched wood for the brazier. They sat in chairs across from each other, shivering inside their clothes. He could not recall a meeting in this house when they had not been naked and making love within minutes of arriving. But they had not come here for pleasure. The chill in the air matched their moods.
The thing they most feared had come to pass – and yet they were both still alive. It was Cornelia who had contacted him, insisting that they meet again, despite the danger. He could not refuse her.
In anticipation of this meeting, he had passed a sleepless night imagining their reunion. His heart would race at the sight of her; he would embrace her; she would weep and speak of her suffering; he would listen, and share the terror of his own experience. They would find comfort once again in each other’s bodies.
But that was not what happened. When he entered the house and found her waiting, with only a feeble fire in the brazier to warm the room, they kept their distance. There seemed to be an invisible barrier between them, not only keeping them apart physically but blunting their emotions. They were not like strangers – that could never happen – but they were not like lovers, either. They were mutual survivors of a disaster, numb with shock. The terror they had experienced eclipsed the passion that had once united them.
They seemed unable to approach each other physically, nor were they able to speak of the reason for their meeting, at least not at first. They began by skirting the subject. They talked as any two acquaintances might, about the latest news, keeping their voices steady and quiet. Of course, all the news was about the emperor and the emperor’s schemes.
“Remember what Titus said, about the powerlessness of words to harm the powerful? ‘It is impossible for me to be insulted.’” As he spoke, Lucius loaded more pieces of wood onto the brazier, stacking them carefully so that they would ignite quickly and burn with a minimum of smoke. The simple task calmed him. “Domitian has drawn up a list of plays that can no longer be performed, either because they offend the dignity of the emperor or undermine public morals. And all new plays must be read and approved by the censor himself. We have an emperor who scrutinizes comedies as if they were manifestos against the state.”
“Surely someone reads the plays for him,” said Cornelia. Her tone of voice was almost normal, only slightly strained. She looked not at Lucius but into the fire.
“Domitian has a whole staff dedicated to combing through every play, discourse, and poem produced on the Street of the Scribes, but he himself makes the final judgement. He fancies himself a writer, you know. Only he can judge the seditious intent of other writers. He’s mounted a campaign against slander, as well. Apparently there are too many scurrilous lampoons making the rounds. I don’t mean ditties that insult the emperor – no one is mad enough to do that – but the kind of verses recited at drunken dinner parties, harmless doggerel making fun of the host or hostess, teasing a man for having skinny legs or a woman for putting too much paint on her face. ‘The dignity of distinguished men and women must not be impugned,’ says the censor. So we have poets being whipped and then thrown onto ships headed for Ultima Thule.”
“And men of importance must not compromise their own dignity,” said Cornelia. “Only yesterday he expelled a man from the Senate. The fellow had appeared in a play during one of the festivals and danced in public.”
“And to think, we once had an emperor whose highest aspiration was to act on the stage.” Lucius attempted a smile, but wondered what his face must look like. She glanced at him only briefly, then looked away, as if it pained her to look at him.
“He’s also drawn up a list of ‘notorious women’ – alleged fortune hunters who prey on rich old men,” said Cornelia. “Those women are not only banned from receiving inheritances, they can no longer use a litter to cross the city. ‘If they must seduce and rob old men instead of living within their means, let them go about their shameless business on foot,’ says the censor. I happen to know a few of the women on the list. They’re not harpies or sirens. One is a widow of noble birth whose brothers have all died and whose husband left her destitute. The fact that a certain senator wishes to pay her rent and provide for her in his will shouldn’t constitute a crime.”
“Soon a man won’t be allowed even to give a pair of earrings to his lover,” said Lucius. “What will become of the time-honoured Roman tradition of keeping a mistress? How are those women supposed to support themselves? And what pleasure remains in life for those rich old men?”
“You sound like your friend Martial.” Cornelia managed a semblance of a smile. The rooms was beginning to grow warmer. She loosened her cloak at the neck and sighed.
“Actually, I don’t sound like Martial, and that’s a sad thing,” said Lucius. “He’s changed.”
“How?”
“We don’t see him as often as we used to. He’s always at some court function these days, or at home in his little apartment, scribbling his verses. He still shows up at Epaphroditus’s house every now and then, but when he does he’s very cautious about what he says, just as we’re careful what we say around him. Martial used to joke about the emperor’s ‘bed wrestling,’ his sour expression, even his baldness, but no more. Martial has become the emperor’s favourite – every poet’s dream – only to discover that his role requires an almost impossible balancing act. He must amuse and flatter his patron and produce the cleverest possible poem on whatever topic Domitian chooses, but he must never produce a pun or metaphor or hyperbole that might offend the censor.”
“It’s too bad Martial has been muzzled,” said Cornelia. “We could use a poet with teeth to record the absurdities of these days. Did you hear about the citizen who was struck from the jury rolls? He charged his wife with adultery and divorced her, but then he took her back – just as Domitian did. The censor decreed that a man who couldn’t make up his mind about his own wife should never be allowed to judge his fellow men. And so we have a man who divorced his wife and took her back declaring that a man who divorced his wife and took her back is unfit to judge other men.”
She laughed, but the laughter caught in her throat. She stared at the fire. Watching flames was a familiar occupation for her.
“Does the flame remind you of Vesta’s eternal hearthfire?” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“What of your faith, Cornelia?”