Chapter Twenty-four
The seventeenth day before the Kalends of Domitianus.
Day eleven of the Games.
The white napkin, released from the praetor’s fingertips, fluttered down, simultaneously a horn sounded, the restraining rope dropped, and a dozen four-horse chariots shot out of the starting boxes. A roar rose from a quarter of a million throats. The drivers, distinguished by their team colors – green, blue, red, white, purple, and gold-stretched out almost horizontally over their horses’ backs, cracking their whips, twisting their bodies, turning their heads for brief seconds to see who was beside or behind them, searching for an opening to the left, closer to the barrier.
As they dashed around the first turn, a Green driver tried to foul one of the Reds by crowding him but wasn’t skillful enough and lost control of his own chariot, careening into the barrier. The chariot flipped up and over, throwing the driver out. His horses plunged on, dragging him, still tied to the reins, into the path of another team. The roar of the crowd redoubled. This was what they had come to see.
Martial and his four friends rose to their feet, screaming with the rest, although from high up in the cheap stands of the vast Circus Maximus it was hard to see what had happened. The surviving chariots disappeared around the turn and up the back stretch in a cloud of dust. They sat again on the benches, prodded by elbows in their ribs, knees in their backs.
“Purple’s going to carry off the honors today,” Priscus shouted in his ear over the rumble of voices. “The emperor’s team. That’s where I put my money.” They could just make out the distant figure of the emperor in the imperial box, swathed in the folds of his purple toga, surrounded by his courtiers, Parthenius, no doubt, among them. “Who’s your money on, then?”
But Martial wasn’t listening. The momentary excitement past, he had sunk back into his own thoughts, which, like those chariots, went round and round in an endless circle. Where was Pliny? Why had he left the city yesterday morning without warning, telling no one where he was going? He would have to meet Stephanus tonight at the popina, but what could he tell him? Stephanus. That man gave him the shudders with his cold eyes and sallow cheeks and that perpetually bandaged arm. And what if Parthenius refused to believe that Pliny hadn’t confided his plans to him? What if Parthenius dropped him after all this? He doubted that anything he had reported so far had really been of much interest to the grand chamberlain. It was that woman Amatia he seemed most interested in.
And there, Martial had simply drawn a blank. An ordinary and harmless provincial matron was all he saw. Rather reserved, rather sad, a bit foolish on the subject of religion. None of the gossip-mongers knew anything about her, naturally, since she hadn’t been in Rome more than a couple of weeks. But in that case, why did Parthenius care? And yet he did care. Which must mean that there was more to Amatia than he had guessed. The thought pounced on him like a cat leaping from cover upon an astonished mouse. Amidst the din of a mindless crowd, Martial’s mind suddenly gained clarity. The woman was lying to them. As simple as that. But what was he to do with this new idea? Martial, who had always thought himself so clever, so knowing, suddenly felt out of his depth, baited and hooked like a fish into betraying his friend and patron for reasons he couldn’t fathom.
He must tell Pliny, as he should have done in the first place. But how could he do so without confessing to his deal with Parthenius and all of his small betrayals over the past days? No, he couldn’t afford that. He would lose both Pliny and Parthenius as patrons.
Thirty years in Rome, grasping for a fame always just out of reach, had changed him into a man that he didn’t like any more. But “the die was cast,” as the Deified Julius had once famously said. There was no alternative now. He would go back to Pliny’s house tonight, play the dutiful client, make himself agreeable to the little wife, and see whether he could pry any information loose from the mysterious Amatia.
The chariots thundered past and Diadumenus, sitting beside him, clutched his arm and screamed, “On, the Greens!” in a transport of excitement, Martial tried hard to look attentive. ???
A second day’s journey by coach brought Pliny and Zosimus to the lovely hill town of Ameria, where they were met by the bailiff of the farm, who had brought saddle horses for them. The farm lay about four miles west of the town.
At a walking pace, they took their way through the rolling country, thick with oak and poplar. Away on their right, Mt. Soracte, a towering wedge of granite, soared above the hills; behind them on the distant horizon stretched the folded masses of the Apennines. In the deep shade of leafy trees the air was autumn crisp, while Rome, sixty miles below, still sweltered through the last days of summer. Rome. Pliny shook himself to drive the image from his mind; he would not think of Rome, not today. Though his purpose was “business,” he savored his illicit freedom like a truant schoolboy. How good it was just to have a horse between his legs again! He breathed deeply-more deeply, he felt, than he had in weeks.
They reached the farm toward evening. Pliny was ravenously hungry. The food was plain, but satisfying. After dinner he dictated a note to Calpurnia to tell her that he had arrived safely, though being careful not to say where. Then he went to bed and slept more soundly than he had in days, lulled by the croaking of the frogs.
The next morning he was up with the sun. He spent an hour with the bailiff, a good-natured and capable man, going over accounts and the rest of the day riding with him round the property. The farm pleased him; it was well worth the asking price-and Pliny was canny about such things. Barley and wheat stood high in the well-watered fields and the tenants were already at work with their sickles getting in the harvest. He stopped and talked with some, though he could barely understand their Umbrian patois. But they seemed to be prospering. What a delight to be here, rubbing soil between his fingertips, slapping a cow’s backside. Weren’t all Romans farmers at heart, born for this life!
But the next morning Pliny-Roman senator, respected lawyer, acting vice prefect, loving husband, expectant father-awoke feeling ill at ease. How long could he prolong this holiday? There was really nothing more to be done here. He had written his report to Fabatus, urging him to buy. What now? Must he return to Rome today? The thought depressed him.
But the bailiff, who was a repository of local lore, had thought of a small diversion for him. He described a certain lake in the neighborhood, sacred to the local folk. “Lake Vadimon it’s called, on t’other side Tiber and worth the seeing, your honor. Funny things happen in that lake. I’ll say no more,” he winked mysteriously, “but ye ought visit it before ye go.”
Pliny was happy to comply. Was not investigating marvels in his blood, after all? His uncle had, of course, been a prodigious collector of them, though he had never heard him speak of this one as far as he could recall. With directions from the bailiff, he and Zosimus mounted up, carrying a picnic lunch and a jar of the local wine in their saddle bags.
They struck off toward the Tiber, across fields and through dripping woods. Where the ground fell away sharply, they put their horses down the slope and splashed across the river, surprising an ox who had come down for its morning drink. A raw chill was in the air, making their horses’ nostrils steam. Here Father Tiber wound between high, narrow banks, overhung with willows, honeysuckle, and wild vine. They followed its twisting course downstream about five miles, then stopped in a clearing and ate their lunch. After resting, they continued on their way, took a wrong turning and got lost for a time.
But toward evening, at last, they came upon the lake. In fact, they smelled it before they saw it, so strong was the stench of its sulfurous water. Lake Vadimon was of moderate size and perfectly even all around, like a wheel lying on its side. Pliny and his young companion pushed through bulrushes waist-high down to the water’s edge, and Pliny knelt and cupped the water in his hand. It was whitish and thick to the touch, and tasted like medicine. And yet the cows drank it; he could see six or seven of them crowding down to the shore on the farther side.