A Shortage of Eels

He smelled the freedom in the yeast aroma of bread, the sea smell of fish, and in the sweet aroma of perfumes that did not mask the odor of bodies but floated above them. He heard it in the barker call of vendors promoting their wares and the murmur of the crowded market. Tiberius enjoyed these rare excursions into the streets of Rome. He had so little time from the demands of office. As a successor to the emperor, his duties occupied his days. Often sent into the territories and military outposts for extended periods to quell mutinies and uprisings, when in Rome he was a member of Augustus’ entourage. But today, as he wandered from forum to marketplace, he had his own entourage: Centurions, advisors, promoters, servants, slaves, and men who seeking power had beguiled themselves into his presence. There were friends, too. These he kept closest. They were people who understood his ambivalence about power and glory, people whose company he favored, as they enjoyed his. They talked was not of empire and conquest, but of the quality of grain in the market and who best to repair a broken axle or weave fine cloth. They drank wine in the Forum, honored the temples, told bawdy stories, and were faithful to their wives. It is men like these, thought Tiberius, who brought stability and order to Rome, and not the generals, Senators, consuls — not even the poets and philosophers. These men made Rome not by their wisdom, not by their arms, but by their hands.

He and his attendants wandered into the marketplace, a long, narrow, crowded, and noisy structure that, on this day, seemed to contain most of the population of the city. They sampled the breads, wines, and sweetmeats the vendors offered. They judged the quality of urns, metal fixtures, fabrics, leathers, and tiles. The crowds, aware that fame and power walked among them, made way for the assembly of men who held court over the greater portion of the known world.

An eel merchant displayed a few shriveled and discolored examples of his product hanging from the ceiling of his stall.

“Has the supply of eels suffered?” Tiberius asked, assuming the sparse and unappetizing display was the result of scarcity.

The merchant smiled broadly, pleased at the opportunity to promote his product to members of the palace. “Not at all, not at all,” he answered. “These are all that remain of the fattest, most succulent eels in all of Rome. The city flocks to my stall at each day’s catch. I’ll soon discount these for the poor and spend the rest of the day in the baths, where the smell of the sea will be replaced by the aroma of the olive grove.”

Even in this shortage of goods, Tiberius thought, there is prosperity.

“Though this is all the buyers have left they are yet among the most delicious in the empire,” the merchant boasted. He held out a long sliver of dried eel “Taste it. I would be honored.”

Tiberius tasted. The eel folded into his senses and then dissolved into a pleasant aftertaste. It tasted as the man bragged: delicious.

Someone had clasped his shoulder. “Come, Tiberius,” It was Desticius, a minor official of the agricultural advisor to Augustus. Desticius was ordered to accompany Tiberius in his wandering the streets and public places, to discuss the vulnerability of Roman grain shipments. If the Caesars were to hold power, the city and the Italian peninsula had to be fed, and the grain supply from Europe and Africa was easy prey to pirates on the Mediterranean Sea and upstart client monarchs at the edge of empire. The search for a solution to a problem for which there was no solution fell upon Desticius.

Tiberius turned to face the speaker, but Desticius stepped to the side, and Tiberius turned further, bringing him to face the direction from which he had come, down the long row of canvas and stucco stalls. The sun at the market’s arched entry made a circle of intense light but did little to illuminate the dim interior. Tiberius squinted into the glare. He was aware he had been manipulated, and for a moment, the fear of assassination gripped him. He struggled to regain his vision, to watch for the drawn dagger. The crowded, noisy city pressed around him.

Other members of his group gathered around Desticius.

“There are matters to be attended to with the emperor,” Desticius said, “and there is little time to take care of the city’s business.”

Tiberius looked away from the slanting light of the sun. The men were tense, but there were no daggers, no threatening gestures. What is the cause of their anxiety? He wondered. What is going on here?

“We have the day to ourselves; the problems of grain supply will be on the table tomorrow. Let us enjoy ourselves today.”

“But there are the mutinies in Pannonia…”

“You are too ambitious, Desticius. Let the generals handle Pannonia. Come. We do not often enough mingle with the people we govern.” He turned again to march deeper into the marketplace and focused his sun-seared eyes into the gloomy interior.

He saw why his staff had attempted to maneuver him away from the market: Agrippina, his former wife, had not yet seen him, even as now and then someone in the crowd would point to the assembly of men and whisper, “Tiberius.” The long hall and its throngs spun around him. The din became silent. He felt he was falling, and indeed, slumped forward and grabbed the edge of the eel merchant’s display in order to stabilize himself. The eel merchant’s look of concern gave way to one of horror when it came to him that he might have just fed spoiled food to a successor to the emperor.

Agrippina! His former wife was shopping with a friend and a servant. The three women chatted among themselves, and Agrippina laughed at something the servant said, showing even white teeth behind Cupid’s bow lips. He gazed at the smooth neck and tinted cheeks that he had so often kissed as she slept.

“Agrippina,” he said. The silence was no longer illusory. The crowd had stopped its chatter when the great Tiberius swooned and waited with breathless anticipation at what would happen next, and all the while casting suspicious glances at the eel merchant.

“Agrippina.”

She turned, saw the man who was once her husband, and might someday be her emperor. She whitened. “Tiberius. No.”

His name from her lips was the music of the gods. “No” was a dagger in his chest.

Desticius pulled at his tunic. “Sire, Augustus has ordered…he has commanded…”

She turned to escape the scene that was about to play out, here, among the press of the city.

He moved toward her. “Agrippina, please.”

She stopped but did not look at him.

“I have been tortured by your absence,” he pleaded. “Come back to me, as my wife.”

She turned, pleading, to face him, “Please, Tiberius. Augustus has ordered our divorce, and his command cannot be violated.”

The browsers and shoppers moved in closer.

“I cannot bear to spend another loveless day with his choice of wife when I know you live. We will go to Germania. I would rather live among the savages with you than to have all the wealth of Rome without you. Please accept my devotion.”

“I will not live long if you disobey the emperor because of me. I must go,” she said with tears now streaking her cheeks. She turned and fled from the market, swallowed by the throngs. The women with her cast furtive glances over their shoulders as they followed. Tiberius went after them.

“Tiberius, Tiberius, do not do this,” his entourage pleaded, their concerns the more real that they would be remembered by Augustus as having been present when the chosen successor had blubbered like a fool in front of all Rome.

“He has eaten some spoiled food,” Desticius announced to the gathering crowd. He wanted desperately to draw the crowd’s attention away from the scene made by his master.

“No, the eel was not tainted,” the merchant pleaded his case.

“Quiet!” snarled a centurion. The merchant shrunk back against the rear wall, terrified of the soldier and horrified at a vision of his future when word got out that the eel merchant Cajetan had fed spoiled food to noble Tiberius, of the House of Caesar.

Tiberius followed the women, who trailed behind the fleeing Agrippina. The group of comrades, advisors, in turn, pursued him, and guards who begged him to show restraint. The train moved across Rome, through the winding streets, across the great plazas, and up the Palatine Hill, to Agrippina’s home. The women escaped inside, and Tiberius sunk to the ground, weeping and calling her name. The entourage gathered around him, uncertain of what to do. When Tiberius had drained himself he stood, weak and shaking, and began to walk home. He moved like a man without will or motive, as though there were no need to walk, and no need to be anywhere. The men following whispered among themselves for a time, and then fell silent.

At his house, he left his comrades without a word. A servant admitted him. “Tell Julia and the servants that I am not to be disturbed,” he ordered and went to his room where he fell across the bed. He slept a restless and anxious sleep through the afternoon, the night, and well into the next day. He dreamed of his former wife; of her funny stories about the nobles and the generals over dinner; her contagious laugh; sitting at the hearth with her baskets of thread and cloth; her bright smile and intoxicating kiss.

A servant woke him.

“Augustus has sent a messenger to escort you to the palace. You are to leave at once.”

He had no will, no desire. Ennui and loss filled him. Only fear of the emperor’s displeasure moved him. Tiberius arose. The servant brought clean, fresh clothes — Tiberius’ military uniform — and helped him freshen up for the drive. Tiberius sat despondent and silent as the wagon sped across the plaza, through the gates, and into the court of the world’s most powerful man. He entered the polished oak doors into a great hall. A bust of Augustus’ uncle, Julius, dominated the anteroom. A servant led him to the emperor.

Augustus waited, holding a staff, beside a table set for twelve for the midday meal. Tiberius approached. He resented the power this man held over him and the loss of his beloved Agrippina. He addressed his lord by the formal greeting so that he would not have to use the more familiar “Sire.”

“Imperator Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Octavianus, I have come at your summons.” He bowed from the waist.

Augustus did not bother with courtesy or protocol but went straight to Tiberius’ erratic behavior the day before. He moved close to his chosen successor. Their faces inches apart, Augustus spoke through clenched teeth.

“The entire city is gossiping about your disloyalty to your wife. I have arranged that you will never again see Agrippina. You are not to seek her, and if by some turn of fate you do find yourself in her presence again, you will not acknowledge her in any way but will remove yourself immediately. Nor will she recognize you. Disobey me and you will see her head will be on this table.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of a platter at the center of the table. For a sickening moment, Tiberius visualized Agrippina’s fermenting head among the greens, olives, and figs.

Augustus stepped back, his anger vented. “You have fought sword in hand with bravery and honor against the enemies of Rome. How has a mere woman now brought you to your knees? You have brought disgrace on the house of Caesar by your buffoonery. I would send you to fight among the barbarous tribesmen of Britannia for the remainder of your life if it were not for the entreaties of my wife, your mother. But you will never again conduct yourself with any but the utmost propriety within sight of the citizenry.”

“Sire…” Tiberius spoke, the word bitter in his mouth.

“Quiet! I ordered you here to listen, not to speak. Now, get out. Do not bother to address me again until I have called for you.”

Tiberius saluted and turned to the door. “One more thing,” Augustus said. Tiberius turned to face his emperor. “In order to save the reputation of the eel merchant Cajetan, whose livelihood you selfishly ruined, I have sent out word that the emperor’s palace finds Cajetan’s eels to be the best to come out of the Mediterranean. I have ordered eels from him in such quantities as to cause, for a time, a shortage of eels in the city. Cajetan will deliver them to your house. I expect you to eat every one of them. That is all.” He slammed his staff against the floor, twice, and his advisors entered the room and arranged themselves around the table where they stood, waiting for their master to seat himself.

Tiberius saluted again, left the palace, and returned home, to his wife.