The frightened emperor reluctantly handed over Petronius, whom he had already removed from his post as Praetorian commandant, and Parthenius. The former was dispatched mercifully with a single stroke of the sword, but the grand chamberlain had his private parts cut off and stuffed into his mouth before being strangled. Domitian’s empress withdrew to her country estate to lead a quiet life of retirement.
Pliny had come out of it very well, Martial reflected. He had joined the ranks of the new majority, applauded Nerva, and was now fulsome in his praise of those senatorial martyrs who had died for their republican ideals under Domitian. If he felt any lingering bitterness over the fate of the slaves, he was careful not to let it show.
But no, this was too harsh. Pliny wasn’t as cynical or as opportunistic as many others. He was a trimmer, but which of us, Martial told himself, is innocent of the charge of flattery and trimming-certainly not I. The age we live in has shriveled our spirits.
Some things that seemed important at the time now seemed trivial in retrospect. No more had been heard of the Christians, for one thing. As is generally the case with these hole-in-the-corner fanatics, they had dissolved back into the general muck, leaving the field to some other gang of lunatics.
As for Verpa’s charming family, the old man’s will was never challenged since the complainant, Lucius, had absconded. Left unguarded by Valens and his troopers, and with the city in turmoil, he had simply disappeared, taking with him whatever loose money was in the house. By now he could be in Egypt or Britain or anywhere in between. Regulus, Verpa’s lawyer, acted as executor of the estate and, in due course, the legacy to the Temple of Isis was paid. Soon after that Turpia Scortilla disappeared. One night, she attended a nocturnal ceremony at the temple. She was seen entering the private chapel with the priest of Anubis. She was never seen leaving it. Odd. But no one cared to pursue the matter.
Without much delay, Alexandrinus too left town to pursue his priestly vocation in other climes. How much money he took with him no one knew. The Isiac clergy were grimly silent on the subject.
Verpa’s mansion was soon sold off to some businessman who converted part of it into a fuller’s works. The odor of piss now made the whole street quite unlivable.
Martial scanned the waterfront. Pliny had promised to come down from Rome to see him off. Since the day of Domitian’s death they had never discussed the Verpa case and, in fact, the two men had rather avoided each other; there was no open breach, but a coolness grew up between them. Martial felt ashamed of his part in the affair. How much of that Pliny suspected, he preferred not to know. On the other hand, his erstwhile patron had never succeeded in gaining for him his heart’s desire, the position of court poet and, when Martial had, at last, asked him for a gift of money to pay his way home, Pliny had seemed to leap at the chance-though with many expressions of regret-to perform this small service.
And here he came now, bustling among the bales heaped at the water’s edge and up the gangplank. All smiles.
The farewell was brief and awkward enough. Martial recited a poem he had written in his honor; Pliny had the good manners to praise it. He overflowed with best wishes and lamented that life in Rome kept him too busy to travel. He promised to write. Of course, he wouldn’t. They bade each other farewell with a feeling of mutual relief.
And then the Amphitryon cast off and set sail. Toward evening they dropped anchor in the Bay of Naples to take on a consignment of wine before standing across to Sicily. A blood-red sun was setting behind the barren speck of Pandateria. Martial leaned out over the railing and squinted. He thought he could make out a lone figure walking slowly along the shoreline, gazing out to sea. It piqued his poet’s imagination. Could it be Domitilla-she whose letter to Verpa had set in motion all that followed? Still there? Conveniently forgotten and likely to remain so forever. Did she miss her old life or was she content to remain alone with her strange god, the one who forbade his worshippers to make images of him? This made Martial think fleetingly of the familiar Roman gods, nourished with the blood and smoke of sacrificial meat. And that made him think of the Roman Games, although he would rather not have. They had been enacted once again since the fall of Domitian. He had done his best to ignore them; they left a bad taste in his mouth. The Roman Games, he thought morosely: lies, murder, hypocrisy, betrayal. These are the games we Romans play best.
The wind was turning cold. He shook himself and went below.