The Silver Chalice (68 page)

“That is Juli-Juli,” said the director. “I grant you that she is different, and I have great hopes for her. No Roman-born woman dances professionally, and we have to depend on men entirely, but it happens that Juli-Juli has foreign blood and is allowed to—to demean herself in this way. How fortunate it is! She will be a great success when she is introduced.” He raised his voice. “Juli-Juli, come here!”

The girl came to a stop, poised herself for a moment on her naked toes, and then floated over to where they stood. She smiled at Darius (Basil had been right about her eyes; they were a startling blue) and said something in soft slurring tones. The director of entertainment regarded her with an affectionate twinkle in his eyes.

“I want you to dance for this young man. He won’t be able to speak to you because he does not know our language.”

The girl gave Basil an intent glance. “I am sorry I cannot talk with the young man, master. He looks very nice.”

“He is very nice. But he is married to a beautiful wife and, moreover, he is a very serious young man. There is only one fault I have to find in you, Juli-Juli: you are not as serious as you ought to be. I even suspect you are quite a flirt.”

“Yes, master, I am a flirt. Is it wrong?”

“There will be no flirting in heaven,” declared the master of entertainment with sudden gravity.

Juli-Juli looked downcast for a moment. Then she nodded her head and smiled. “Then if one is to do any flirting at all, it must be in this life.” She became sober again. “Master, I am young and I am a slave. One must get some pleasure out of life.”

Darius resumed his conversation with Basil, dropping back into Koine. “She had a Gothic father. Her mother was Roman and a very sweet and gentle lady. The girl belongs.”

Basil dropped his voice to a whisper. “Do you mean that she is a Christian?”

“Yes. And a most devout one. She’s a slave, of course, and as she belongs to the royal household she can never hope for her freedom. But she does not let her lack of prospects affect her spirits. She is always gay and as proud of her dancing as a tiny dog with a big bone in its mouth.” He turned and nodded to the girl. “I can see that the young man thinks you are very pretty, Juli-Juli. Now for that dance. Show him you have nimble toes as well as bright eyes.”

The girl seated herself on the floor and tucked up the skirt of her tunic with the unconcern of a child, showing a very neat and white pair of legs in doing so. Over her small and equally white feet she began to draw coverings of oiled skin. They fitted so tightly that it took much tugging and smoothing to get them properly adjusted. Basil looked down at the fair nimbus that had won his attention first and asked, “How old is she?”

“Fifteen. They will insist on marrying her soon. In fact, there has been some talk of offering her as a prize in a gladiatorial contest. I hope to save her from that by making them see she is too valuable as a dancer to be handicapped by childbearing.”

The girl sprang to her feet, shuffled them to make sure the coverings were in proper place, and said to Darius, “I am happy to dance for him, master.” She looked up at Basil in farewell.
“Vale!”
she said, and then sprang into the steps of a dance.

There was nothing sedate or stilted about her conception of dancing. She was like a shadow and she seemed almost to float without touching the floor. The sun, pouring through one of the windows, caught the golden lights in her hair and caused Basil to say, “She is like a primula tossed about on the wind.”

Darius threw a kiss at the air. “She dances,” he declaimed, “like a moonbeam, like a wood nymph. You are seeing her now in her serious mood. She is trying to impress you because she thinks you are nice. When she wants to, she has a knack of drollery about her and she does rowdy little dances. She is irresistible then!” He paused and beamed excitedly on the visitor. “Selech and I are planning an entrance for her when she makes her first appearance. No, she had not danced for the court yet;
I have been saving her. When she does, my young friend, you must be there.”

The gardens were ablaze with the bright reds of early fall: the mighty canna, tall and scarlet and majestic like a true floral symbol of the empire; the wild ranunculus blooming behind walls or in the shade of trees where the fierce sun could not reach them; the glowing landamun bushes. It seemed to Basil as he wandered up and down the shaded paths that there was a slave at work on every shrub, a spade available for every square yard of ground. These silent laborers, with the imperial disk about their necks, looked at him with a smolder of hatred, as though he belonged to the cruel keepers who held them in chains; but never for a moment did they pause in their work.

He went casting about for the line of trees that Septimus had pointed out to him. After following many false leads down green paths lined with oleander and bright with the scarlet bloom of salvia, and through spiny mazes, he finally came upon it. It began, as Septimus had said, at the massed shrubs that screened the pool of Poppaea (which was even more effectively closed off by parading eunuchs with drawn swords) and led off to the east in almost a straight line. He walked slowly in the shade of these tall trees and came, after what seemed a full mile of tramping, within sight of the wall. It was of crumbling dark stone and had a fortress-like height and sentries pacing along the top with spears on their shoulders. There was a dense mass of shrubbery where the line of trees ended, and behind this, he was sure, would be found the hole in the wall that the young Roman had described. Basil waited until the back of the nearest sentry was turned and then plunged into the cover of the brush.

There was a hole at the base of the wall, almost completely hidden by the accumulation of many seasons of leaves and by graceful fronds of fern. Kneeling down, he brushed the leaves away and put his head and shoulders in the hole. It proved a close fit, and he said to himself that, if the need to make a hasty exit brought him to this tunnel, it would be a fortunate thing for him that his stomach was still flat. At the other side he could see more ferns and the brown of the leaves and the merest hint of daylight.

He emerged cautiously from the cover of shrubs with a certain sense of satisfaction. Like a good general, he had his line of retreat ready. He indulged in a slight shiver. “I wonder if that tunnel is full of snakes!”

Septimus was in the bedroom when Basil returned from his rambles in the garden. The Roman held out a new tunic to him and said, “A gift from Caesar.”

It was, Basil thought, the finest garment he had ever seen. It was made of a stiffly rich material of the nature of brocade; amethyst in color and embroidered thickly and magnificently with light blue and silver-gray. It developed that there was a belt of embossed silver to go with it and a silvery scarf for the shoulders. There were also leg pads of gray leather that fitted the shins with the ease and tenacity of silk.

“Why am I so honored?” asked Basil.

Septimus grinned at him. “I suspect he likes what you did. He did not confide in me, but I can put two and two together. My orders were to get you into these gay plumes and then escort you to the Presence. There’s a bracelet for your arm as well.” He produced the object in question and looked at it with a wondering shake of the head. “It is three inches wide and solid silver! It goes on the upper arm. And do you see that band of amethysts on it?”

When Basil had arrayed himself in the gifts of Caesar, Septimus looked him over with a rueful smile. “This poor moldy crow will now lead the way to the august Presence. Will it annoy you, O Artist of the Rising Star, to walk in the company of such a dingy specimen?”

He continued to talk as they traversed the echoing halls of the drafty palace. “What will the fair Poppaea think of her husband’s new protégé? They say she responds to masculine attraction like a panther springing from a tree. Walk warily, my friend, these halls are full of man-traps.

“And remember this, O Lucky One,” he continued with a severe frown. “Never address a remark to the Splendor of the World. Wait for him to speak and then answer; and, my good little Basil, choose your words with the sagacity of a Seneca. The fewer you use, the fewer your chances to make mistakes.”

He led Basil into a small room that opened off one of the more magnificent of the state chambers. The few furnishings were old and there were holes in the carpet. The only occupant of the room, as far as he could see, was a lean old man in a plain toga who stood stiffly near the window and seemed very much preoccupied. Where, then, was Caesar?
He had the answer the next moment; the Emperor was lying flat on his back with his arms and legs spread-eagled on the floor. There were two large flat stones on his chest, but he was breathing, nevertheless, deeply and easily.

“Another weight, Terpnus,” said the recumbent ruler of the world.

Terpnus, the singing master who now took up so much of Nero’s time, looked at his pupil with a line of worry deepening in his tight-skinned brow. “I doubt the wisdom of more pressure, O August Master,” he said. He stepped forward toward the figure on the floor with the intention of removing the weights, but an impatient motion of a fat bare arm forbade it.

“Another stone, Terpnus.”

A stone was added. The weights continued to rise and fall with the imperial breathing. “Still another!” The voice in which Nero had spoken was rather less robust and steady. The singing master knew when it was incumbent on him to act. Instead of obeying his pupil’s demand and adding a fourth stone to the chest of divinity, he removed those that were already there.

“The perfection to which your voice is attaining,” he said with a prim severity, “must not be spoiled by going too far.”

Nero sat up on the floor, looking winded and even a little shaken. He paid no attention to Basil standing uneasily at one side of the room; rather, he seemed to be striving studiously to create the impression that he was unaware of an audience. He was carrying on the conversation with the old teacher, nevertheless, in Koine.

“You are right, Terpnus,” he said. “I am inclined to carry things to extremes. It is a weakness of mine. Oh yes, I have weaknesses, Terpnus: I have indeed. I must learn to obey without question.”

In a few moments he was so far recovered that he got to his feet and began slowly to perform some exercises of the arms. Puffing a little, he said, “I feel certain, Terpnus, that no one in the world can show the equal of my chest expansion.”

The singing master replied testily, “It is not wise to talk while doing the exercises. May I point out, O Caesar, that I have mentioned this often before?” Then he gave the desired answer. “It would be interesting to measure the chests of some of the strongest gladiators. I am disposed to think, master, that your expansion would excel any of them, even Sisinnes the Unbeaten.”

The pair of them, master and royal pupil, proceeded then to another phase of the daily ritual. Terpnus, with quick and nervous movements like a mother hen, took a sprinkler and sprayed the august throat with an aromatic liquid. Then he produced an ointment and massaged the throat and chest with quick and skillful strokes of his fingers. A clap of the hands brought a trio of musicians and a drummer into the room. Terpnus hummed until he struck the right pitch and then listened with his head on one side while the flutes and the cithara collaborated with the royal voice in running up and down the scales, the drum coming in with a regular rat-tat.

Basil, accepting the role of watcher that had been thrust upon him, was surprised at the range and quality of the voice of Nero. It had become the custom on the outside to laugh at this Emperor who wanted to be a public performer and to say that all he could produce was an amateurish squawk. It was evident that he had a voice that warranted the efforts he was making to develop it. A robust tenor, it was full-throated and clear on the top notes, and of a blandishing sweetness.

As he followed the directing arm of Terpnus up and down the scales, Nero made it clear that at last he had become aware of his audience of one. Out of the corners of his small and avid eyes he was watching Basil and noting his reactions. After striking a particularly high note, his eyes would glint and it was clear that he would have liked to say, “What do you think of that, artist fellow?” His awareness of the silent witness resulted also in a tendency to act, to strike poses as he sang, to gesture floridly with his arms. His voice kept pace by straining for effect. Once it flattened and went off the key. He reached vigorously to regain it and emitted a note ending in an almost ludicrous screech.

“Enough!” cried Terpnus. The old teacher was all apologies and contrition. “It was my fault. I kept you at work too long. But, Caesar, you were in such rare form that I could not bear to bring the lesson to an end. I made you go on and on. I should be punished for my selfishness.”

“Part of the fault was mine,” conceded Nero. “I am too willing. I expect too many miracles of my voice. Master, I acknowledge it; I have been showing off.”

Another clap of the Terpnusian hands resulted in the arrival of a steaming dish, a big silver spoon, and a scented towel. The odor of fried onions filled the room.

“Must I, Terpnus, must I?” cried Nero in piteous tones. “You know
how much I despise onions. It requires such an effort of the will to get them down. Cruel taskmaster, do you insist that I eat this vile mess because it is good for my voice?”

“I insist, O Caesar.”

“Very well.” Accepting the command with sudden and complete good nature, the royal pupil seated himself before the dish of onions and proceeded to eat them with a suggestion, even, of secret enjoyment. When the last oily sliver had gone its way down the royal throat, Nero rose to his feet and daintily wiped his lips and fingers on the perfumed towel.

Then he turned and shook an accusing finger in Basil’s direction.

“There is a lesson in this for you!” he cried.

There was something studied about him, as though he had rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say. “If I, Caesar,” he went on, “must subject myself to the tyranny of training, I, with the voice the gods have been good enough to give me, and with cares and responsibilities weighing as heavily on my back as the weights they heap upon my chest; if I make sacrifices like this, what, then, should you be ready to do? You too have a gift. Yes, you have a good gift. You too may contribute something to the advancement of the arts if you are prepared to pay the price. Benefit, therefore, by what you have seen today.”