I toast them myself in a pannikin. It’s the only way to be sure they are browned uniformly but not burnt. Some things are worth that little extra trouble.
This is not irrelevant. A patient attitude makes me a good informer.
Evening had arrived but in October twilight lingers, so I decided to go out. I had met all the Volumnii; I was ready to seek more background material. I would track down one or other of the customers whose names my father had given me. Any lead from him would be useful; besides, next time I saw Falco, he would nag me about what his contacts had come up with. I might as well do it.
The first, some kind of lawyer, lived near the Temple of Jupiter the Victor. He was not at home. This was no surprise. Those who could afford to buy antiques, especially from the price-hiking Didius firm, would be cultured people with concerts and dramas to attend, recipients of many social invitations. The rich hardly have time to enjoy being leisured.
The next man’s name was Iucundus. He had run a transport business, though was now retired on the proceeds. He lived in an apartment in a street named after the Pila Tiburtina, a column commemorating some ancient victory. He must have an interest in history because there was an equally old Temple of Flora nearby.
My father had given flawless directions. Laia could have learned from him. As an informer, Falco spent many hours dismally searching for locations. This had produced his theory that when you are worn out and lost, just go into a bar. Sometimes serendipitously the barman will know the place you want; if not, give up and get drunk.
No daughter of Didius Falco was allowed to go tippling in taverns, or so he said – at least, not without him to share the wine. To avoid it, he had made sure I had enough details to walk straight to the fine abode of Iucundus, without a wrong turn.
Iucundus had fended off social pleasure and snatched an evening to himself. Nevertheless he welcomed me. ‘Anyone sent by Falco! I am only surprised he didn’t come himself, bearing his usual convivial flagon. Your father and I have passed many a wonderful evening, at the end of which I have discovered that I owed him a lot of money for some gorgeous thing I had not even known I wanted.’
‘He does sell nice objects,’ I replied demurely. To be honest, our family business shifts wagonloads of trash as well. But the many shelves of Greek black-figure vases that lined the rooms in this handsome masculine apartment told their own story. For Iucundus, collecting was an unstoppable addiction. Falco, and my roguish grandfather Geminus before him, supplied his needs as if prescribing medical pick-me-ups. They appeared kindly; he was happy. I admired his hoard, among which, it is true to say, I spotted no ludicrous fakes.
Iucundus was a portly man of at least sixty, with a red face and a rolling gait. He enjoyed life in all its aspects. This would kill him but, as he said with a roar of laughter, we all must die. One day – soon, I reckoned – his huge collection would come back to the auction house for a rather good estate sale. He admitted this himself, undaunted by what others might view as a tragedy. He had taken pleasure in every pot. He was perfectly content that when his time was up, someone else would have the chance to love these things as he did.
A dear man. I liked him. Thank you, Falco. In our trade, meeting someone agreeable is a rare thing.
He lived alone. He had no family. But his was not a lonely life. Father had sent me here because Iucundus knew people.
I outlined my case. Intrigued, he sat me down with him, and made me explain more. We were surrounded by banks of Panathenaic amphorae, those large vessels that were presented to winners at the Greek Games. Glaucus at the gym had one he had won; he would die before he let it out of his possession. Seated beneath these aspirational prizes for athletes with the loftiest ideals, I told my sad little tale of family grief.
Iucundus wept. He was very soft-hearted. He threw himself into emotions with abandon; the tragic story made his day. ‘Oh, I love a good sob!’ We both giggled.
My father had muttered some vague warning for me not to expect the usual kind of interview. I had thought nothing of it. What interview is ‘usual’? Any conversation that seems too grounded in normality means some swine is lying through his teeth.
Iucundus was not like that. Apart from being good fun, he gave me real help. At first he thought he did not know the Volumnii, but as he pondered further, he decided he had seen the daughter’s friends. They were a group who cluttered up plays Iucundus went to; he liked the theatre, just as he liked everything. This large flock of noisy young things who paid no attention to the drama made him gripe. ‘They only go there to be seen. They don’t even know what play they are chattering over and wrecking.’
‘I can imagine. Fashionable and flighty. Expensive tastes, no judgement. Volumnius Firmus calls them shallow. He tried to excuse it by saying they are young but will improve.’
‘That’s very measured. Ah!’ Iucundus suddenly exclaimed. ‘I do know who he is – the bonus vir!’
I started. ‘Someone else called him that.’
‘Do you know what it means, Flavia Albia?’
‘No. A “good man”, but it sounds like a title. Please tell me, Iucundus.’
Iucundus clapped his hands, delighted to throw himself into a lecture. His tunic strained over his ample belly and he wore jewelled finger-rings. He reminded me of my ambiguous uncle, the one who lived with his male partner in exotic style in Alexandria. My father had not mentioned this; he took a customer at face value, so long as the money came good. Mind you, we only ever questioned our own Uncle Fulvius over one story, that he had hacked off his own manhood in an eastern ritual … Fulvius had a dark personality. Iucundus was much jollier.
‘A bonus vir is an arbiter, Flavia Albia. He is a man in private life to whom people with disputes may turn. It is an alternative to embarking on expensive lawsuits. For one thing, it saves them going public. An arbitration expert carries out hearings in camera. He may be an expert in a specialist field, for instance a surveyor – there are a great many land and property disputes, you won’t be surprised to know. But he must be known for his dependable judgement, a man of trusted neutrality. People are supposed to follow the ruling he makes, including any financial settlement. On the whole, arbiters achieve this, though it is possible to turn to the praetor if anyone is seriously unhappy with the conciliatory pronouncement.’
‘Have you ever used arbitration, Iucundus?’
‘No. I prefer to cut my losses and move on.’
‘Do people pay the arbiter?’
‘No.’
‘That’s why they call him a good man!’ I chortled.
‘Falco’s daughter!’ laughed Iucundus gleefully.
More soberly, we agreed how ironic it must be that Volumnius Firmus, who settled disputes for others, was now embroiled in a vicious wrangle within his own family.
‘Oh dear, it all comes back now,’ Iucundus said. ‘I know the judge who is due to hear the case about the hurt slave. I must make sure to find out when, so I can toddle along and hear it!’
‘There may be a bad divorce too,’ I told him.
‘Better and better!’
‘Oh, don’t be so naughty! There will be consequences, my dear Iucundus. People will stop taking their disputes to him, if they think the mediator cannot even make peace among his own relatives. Volumnius Firmus will soon have lost his child, his marriage and even his occupation.’
‘We grieve for him – but, sweet girl, fear not: plaintiffs will count this as a recommendation,’ Iucundus suggested brightly. ‘After being racked with his own upsets, Volumnius will appreciate other people’s pain! You don’t want to hand some gut-wrenching row with your cheating business colleague to a man who has never even accused his bailiff of pinching farm produce.’
‘You are a good person to talk to,’ I answered, ‘though wicked, Iucundus.’
‘I am a friend of your father’s, Flavia Albia. What else did you expect?’
It must have been half an hour since Iucundus last felt peckish. Flunkeys who knew his
habits flitted in unasked, bearing refreshments in silver dishes. He wanted to include me. Refusal would be impolite. Besides, it goes without saying, supper at his house was a fine feast.
When we finished, it was too late to go back to see Father’s other suggested contact. Iucundus did offer to take me, saying the man was notorious for chasing women around the pool in his atrium. I thanked him for the warning, but decided to go home to my lodging.
I was sent in a litter even though it was only a few streets away. Iucundus must know Falco was tough; Falco would have taught his informer daughter to be streetwise. However, Iucundus said it gave him pleasure to spoil me. When he saw me off, he even tucked a flagon of extremely good wine beside me among the cushions, something (he whispered) that I could drink in my room whenever my case grew bothersome. He didn’t even know that my husband was missing, so evenings alone would be a trial.
This was Rome. Rome is full of cruelty: thieves, muggers and confidence tricksters. Shameless predators infect every aspect of life. But sometimes you will be surprised by unfeigned generosity. Since I came here I had learned that Rome, at its best, is the most civilised city in the world.
14
I would be seeing Iucundus the next day. As soon as he got wind of a Nine Day Feast, he was ecstatic and planned to grace it. I asked whether not knowing the family could be a problem, but he pooh-poohed that. Neighbours, he reckoned, can attend funerals uninvited. Indeed, if word of free food and drink had been rumoured widely, the whole Quirinal would come flocking.
‘Including the reclusive rich?’
‘Especially them!’
Anyway, he said, once he bluffed his way in looking confident, the Volumnii would just assume he was an old acquaintance. If he could see that I was my father’s daughter, I could tell why Iucundus was Falco’s friend.
I welcomed his presence. He would be there if I wanted someone to talk to. Otherwise, I might have felt uncomfortable. My commission gave me a notional claim to attend, but it still felt intrusive. Fortunately, I had with me a plain white tunic and a stole that would do duty as a respectful head cover. Leaving off jewellery and cosmetics to indicate mourning, at least I would look right.
Quite early in the day it became clear that Iucundus was correct: everyone on the Quirinal took the traditional view that a Nine Day Feast was intended ‘to bring the community together’. The Volumnii must have realised how many community-minded well-wishers would prey upon their hospitality. Their caterers were ready. The rest of Rome must have been denuded of funeral food. The Volumnii were not going to hold back because of demand elsewhere. Grief did not make them good-mannered. People are always dying, sometimes even from natural causes. Other mourners must just wait.
Wise people celebrate the end of the Nine Days of Sorrow at the tomb. That thins out the crowd. Fewer strangers will be willing to traipse beyond the city boundary to the necropolis. Some, if you are lucky, go to the wrong one anyway. The right feasting venue is not always easy to work out. Mausoleums are on random main roads, depending on which street-of-the-dead was first used by the family in the past – or even on where some sharp uncle has now found a cheap deal on a columbarium niche.
The nearest necropolis for the Quirinal would be in the north-east, either on the Via Salaria or the Via Nomentana, but who knows? I never found out where the Volumnii had placed Clodia’s urn or how lavish they made it. The parents and a short train of people who were close to them had processed to their tomb at dawn to make a private libation. The one person missing would have been Clodia’s elder brother, who, being in North Africa, had probably not even heard the news yet. Eventually the mourning group returned, to take their last meal now in spirit with Clodia. Then, according to custom, her ghost would be at peace.
I was hanging over the balcony rail beside other people who lived in the building. I watched their entrance. The male mourners were in black, the women in white, all heads veiled, no jewellery. It looked extra-formal; they might even have gone barefoot, but no one does that in Roman streets unless they want an early grave themselves. Other friends, plus nosy people claiming to be friends, were waiting in the courtyard. Some had already been picking at the food. As Iucundus had promised me, even the reclusive rich had managed to turn out today; they positioned themselves apart, letting lesser people admire just how aloof they were.
As soon as the bereaved parents came in through the portico, they separated. Volumnius Firmus stalked to one end of the tables, Sentia Lucretia peeled off to the opposite side. Each was supported by their veiled mother. It was clear neither parent intended to speak to the other; the two grandmothers looked equally hostile.
Carried in with the procession was a death mask. Now in theory I saw how Clodia Volumnia had looked: sweet-faced features, unformed and childlike. Conventionally, her eyes were closed and her lips faintly smiling. The moon-faced portrait was waxen smooth, as death masks always are, whether or not they are taken direct from the corpse. At that point, I asked a woman next to me, who said the mask was true to life.
‘She looks a bit lacking,’ I muttered in an undertone, adding politely, ‘or is that the way they’ve done it?’
‘Well, none of us really knew her,’ answered the woman, trying to be fair on this sad occasion. But her tone said I was right. Clodia may have been spirited enough if she was thwarted, but in other ways she was short on character.
Many young girls are immature at fifteen. Not me. Still, I had had reasons.
I stayed above to watch the starting formalities. Men, possibly business colleagues or those for whom he had carried out successful arbitrations, paid respects to Volumnius Firmus. They shook his hand with a few muttered words; he replied hoarsely. Respectable matrons approached Sentia Lucretia, kissing her cheek and also her mother’s; one or two (I guessed it was those who also had young daughters) hugged Sentia in real sympathy, held her face between their hands, whispered encouragement. She bore it, tight-lipped and tearless. For her, and for her husband, the formal occasion was something to be gone through; they carried it off courageously. Their two matriarchs stood like forbidding statues, though Volumnia Paulla, the podgy one, occasionally sniffed into a handkerchief.
Some of those who passed themselves off as well-wishers never spoke. Barely acknowledging the family’s presence, the ghouls had blatantly come for a free meal. Those whose small children would not eat the funeral wheat cakes had even brought special baskets of child-friendly titbits that would keep them quiet while the adults tucked in.
As soon as it seemed appropriate, I went down to mingle. Spotting me, Dorotheus led me to a seat at one long table, near to a cluster of subdued young people. Well, they were subdued for a while. They livened up when a new young man, arriving late, reported, ‘There aren’t to be any speeches, you’ll be glad to hear. A eulogy was said at the interment, and that’s it.’
‘What was pontificated, Cluvius, my man?’ another lad demanded in loud, mock-oratorical style. He was very sure of himself.
‘No idea. The usual crap, I imagine. How long she lived. Honourable, dutiful and chaste.’
‘Presumably chaste!’ chortled the first speaker. He was heartless, but now had the sense to drop his voice.
‘I know what the tombstone is going to say,’ a girl interrupted. She took out a single-page tablet and read it carefully:
‘“Stop, stranger, and read what is written here: this was set up for Clodia Volumnia aged fifteen. If anyone cares to add his grief to ours, here let him stand and let him weep. Her unhappy parents have laid to rest their one and only daughter whom they cherished while the Fates allowed it. Now she is torn away from home. Her too-young bones are a little pinch of ash. May the earth lie light upon her.”’
‘Shit in a cup!’ cried the boy who had been addressed as Cluvius, a seriously uncouth brat. ‘That’s bloody touching. How did you get hold of that gem, Sabinilla?’
‘The undertaker wrote it down for me. I’m going to go up to her parents and say how wonderful I thi
nk it is.’ She sounded sincere. I reckoned that would last at least until the next platter of wheat cakes came her way. She had spotted it coming so was rapidly cleaning her bowl to make room for a refill.
‘That is such a sweet thought!’ exclaimed another girl. Both were carefully veiled; they must have spent time closeted together, pinning each other’s headdresses so they framed their faces attractively. Beneath, they wore their hair loose as a sign of mourning: glossy well-nourished locks that were old friends with curling rods. Large bags alongside them on the bench were probably stuffed with the bangles and neck chains they had taken off to show respect – the clanking metalwork all ready to be slung back on as soon as the young women left here. I could tell by the uncomfortable way they were kicking their heels under the table that they wore ankle-cracking sandals.
These friends of Clodia’s were sitting to my right. I turned a little to the left, as if in conversation with other guests, though my neighbours were eating so busily I only had to pretend. I kept my eyes on my food bowl, though my ears took note.
‘Is the big man coming?’
‘Numerius? No, he agonised whether, but couldn’t face the awkwardness. His old ones are here. He is letting them represent him!’
‘Which are they?’
‘Can’t spy them, but you’ll know by them fervently telling everyone that mortality is inevitable and we ought not to cry for the loss of a temporary gift. “Some will stay but some must go” – his ghastly mama trapped me by the porch and regaled me with a Stoic sermon. You wouldn’t think Numerius belonged to them.’
‘The Cestia domina knows you?’
‘I was with mine, so no escape; I hitched a lift in Mater’s chair. She had to squash up to fit me in, but her bruises should go down in a few days.’
The speaker was a well-built, athletic young man of about twenty. His tolerant mother must have risked suffocation, sharing a standard carrying chair with her hulking progeny. If these people were all local, the tight squeeze could only have lasted for a few streets, but all the more reason for a healthy son to have been told to walk.
Pandora's Boy: Flavia Albia 6 (Falco: The New Generation) Page 8
