Robert Silverberg: With Caesar in the Underworld

“The Great Mother’s jewels, if their reputation has any substance to it, will help him quickly engender a new little Caesar, let us hope. After which, he’ll probably never lay a finger on her again, to her great relief and his, eh?” Maximilianus bounded up from his divan to pour more wine for Faustus, and for himself. “Has he really gone up north to inspect the troops, by the way? That’s the tale I’ve heard, anyway.”

“And I,” said Faustus. “It’s the official story, but I have my doubts. More likely he’s headed off to his forests for a few days of hunting, by way of ducking the marriage issue as long as he can.” That was the Caesar Heraclius’s only known amusement, the tireless, joyless pursuit of stag and boar and fox and hare. “Let me tell you, the Greek ambassador was more than a little miffed when he found out that the prince had chosen the very week of his arrival to leave town. He let it be known very clearly, how annoyed he was. Which brings me to the main reason for this visit, in fact. I have work for you. It becomes your job and mine to keep the ambassador amused until Heraclius deigns to get back here.”

Maximilianus responded with a lazy shrug. “Your job, perhaps. But why is it mine, old friend?”

“Because I think you’ll enjoy it, once you know what I have in mind. And I’ve already committed you to it, besides, and you don’t dare let me down. The ambassador wants to go on a tour of Roma—but not to the usual tourist attractions. He’s interested in getting a look at the Underworld.”

The Caesar’s eyes widened. “He is? An ambassador, going there ?”

“He’s young. He’s Greek. He may be a little on the perverse side, or else he’d simply like to be. I said that you and I would show him temples and palaces, and he said to show him the grottoes and the whorehouses. The marketplace of the sorcerers, the caverns of the witches, that sort of thing. ‘I’ve got a bit of a taste for the low life’ is what he told me,” Faustus said, in passable imitation of Menandros’s drawling tones and Eastern-accented Latin. “‘The dark, seamy underbelly of the city’ is the very phrase he used. ‘All that dodgy stuff that Roma’s so famous for.’”

“A tourist,” Maximilianus said, with scorn. “He just wants to take a tour that’s slightly different from the standard one.”

“Whatever. At any rate, I have to keep him entertained, and with your brother hiding out in the woods and your father ill I need to trot forth some other member of the Imperial family to play host for him, and who else is there but you? It’s no more than half a day since he arrived in town and Heraclius has succeeded in offending him already, without even being here. The more annoyed he gets, the harder a bargain he’s going to drive once your brother shows up. He’s tougher than he looks and it’s dangerous to underestimate him. If I leave him stewing in his own irritation for the next few days, there may be big trouble.”

“Trouble? Of what sort? He can’t call off the marriage just because he feels snubbed.”

“No, I suppose he can’t. But if he gets his jaw set the wrong way, he may report back to Justinianus that the next Emperor of the West is a bumbling fool not worth wasting soldiers on, let alone a sister. The princess Sabbatia quietly goes back to Constantinopolis a few months after the wedding and we get left to deal with the barbarians on our own. I like to think I’ll be able to head all that off if I can distract the ambassador for a week or two by showing him a little dirty fun in the catacombs. You can help me with that. We’ve had some good times down there, you and I, eh, my friend? Now we can take him to some of our favorite places. Yes? Agreed?”

“May I bring along the Hebrew?” Maximilianus asked. “To be our guide. He knows the Underworld even better than we do.”

“Danielus bar-Heap, you mean.”

“Yes. Bar-Heap.”

“By all means,” said Faustus. “The more the merrier.”

It was too late in the evening by the time he left Maximilianus’s to go to the baths. Faustus returned to his own quarters instead and called for a hot bath, a massage, and, afterward, the slave-girl Oalathea, that dusky, lithe little sixteen-year-old Numidian with whom the only language Faustus had in common was that of Eros.

A long day it had been, and a hard, wearying one. He hadn’t expected to find Heraclius gone when he came back from Ostia with the Eastern ambassador. Since the old Emperor Maximilianus was in such poor shape, the plan had been for the Greek ambassador to dine with Prince Heraclius on his first evening at the capital; but right after Faustus had set off for Ostia, Heraclius had abruptly skipped out of the city, leaving behind the flimsy inspecting-the-northern-troops excuse. With the Emperor unwell and Heraclius away, there was no one of appropriate rank available to serve as official host at a state dinner except Heraclius’s rapscallion brother Maximilianus, and none of the officials of the royal household had felt sufficiently audacious to propose that without getting Faustus’s approval first. So the state dinner had simply been scrubbed that afternoon, a fact that Faustus had not discovered until his return from the port. By then it was too late to do anything about that, other than to send a frantic message after the vanished prince imploring him to head back to Urbs Roma as quickly as possible. If Heraclius had indeed gone hunting, the message would reach him at his forest lodge in the woods out beyond Lake Nemorensis, and perhaps, perhaps, he would pay heed to it. If he had, against all probability, really gone to the military frontier, he was unlikely to return very soon. And that left only the Caesar Maximilianus, willy-nilly, to do the job. A risky business, that could be.

Well, the ambassador’s little confession of a bit of a taste for the low life had taken care of the issue of keeping him entertained, at least for the next couple of days. If slumming in the Underworld was what Menandros was truly after, then Maximilianus would become the solution instead of the problem.

Faustus leaned back in the bath, savoring the warmth of the water, enjoying the sweet smell of the oils floating on the surface. It was while in the bath that proper Romans of the olden days—Seneca, say, or the poet Lucan, or that fierce old harridan Antonia, the mother of the Emperor Claudius—would take the opportunity to slit their wrists rather than continue to endure the inadequacies and iniquities of the society in which they lived. But these were not the olden days, and Faustus was not as offended by the inadequacies and iniquities of society as those grand old Romans had been, and, in any event, suicide as a general concept was not something that held great appeal for him.

Still, it certainly was a sad time for Roma, he thought. The old Emperor as good as dead, the heir to the throne a ninny and a prude, the Emperor’s other son a wastrel, and the barbarians, who were supposed to have been crushed years ago, once again knocking at the gates. Faustus knew that he was no model of the ancient Roman virtues himself—who was, five centuries after Augustus’s time?—but, for all his own weaknesses and foibles, he could not help crying out within himself, sometimes, at the tawdriness of the epoch. We call ourselves Romans, he thought, and we know how to imitate, up to a point, the attitudes and poses of our great Roman forebears. But that’s all we do: strike attitudes and imitate poses. We merely play at being Romans, and deceive ourselves, sometimes, into accepting the imitation for the reality.

It is a sorry era, Faustus told himself.

He was of royal blood himself, more or less. His very name proclaimed that: Faustus Flavius Constantinus Caesar. Embedded within it was the cognomen of his famous imperial ancestor, Constantinus the Great, and along with it the name of Constantinus’s wife Fausta, herself the daughter of the Emperor Maximianus. The dynasty of Constantinus had long since vanished from the scene, of course, but by various genealogical zigs and zags Faustus could trace his descent back to it, and that entitled him to add the illustrious name “Caesar” to his array. Even so he was merely a secondary official in the Chancellery of Maximilianus II Augustus, and his father before him had been an officer of trifling rank in the Army of the North, and his father before him—well, Faustus thought, best not to think of him. The family had had some reverses in the course of the two centuries since Constantinus the Great had occupied the throne. But no one could deny his lineage, and there were times when he found himself secretly looking upon the current royal family as mere newcomers to power, jumped up out of nowhere. Of course, the early Emperors, Augustus Caesar and Tiberius and Claudius and such, would have looked even upon Constantinus the Great as a jumped-up newcomer; and the great men of the old Republic, Camillus, for instance, or Claudius Marcellus, would probably have thought the same of Augustus and Tiberius. Ancestry was a foolish game to play, Faustus thought. The past existed here in Roma in layer upon layer, a past that was nearly thirteen hundred years deep, and everyone had been a jumped-up newcomer once upon a time, even the founder Romulus himself.