I had to read the document several times because the story was so convoluted, and made even more so by the fact that there were so many descendants of Augustus by Nero’s day. Any one of them had as valid a claim to be princeps as Nero did. His mother eliminated several and Nero kept up the onslaught. The object of his wrath in this case was Junia Lepida, the great-granddaughter of Augustus. Nero suspected Lepida of plotting to place her nephew, Junius Silanus—another Augustan descendant—in power. He accused her, however, of taking part in bizarre religious rituals and committing incest with her nephew, things that even Nero’s worst enemies should find abhorrent.
Along with several others, Calpurnius Fabatus was charged as an accomplice. I could understand how, given his interest in Egyptian customs, Nero might have seized on him as an easy target. Having seen his house and his relationship with his great-niece, I would need little evidence to consider him guilty. He proved to be too insignificant, though—in other words, not directly related to Augustus—for Nero to bother with and the case was never prosecuted. Lepida, her husband, her nephew, and other, more prominent people were executed or exiled.
Junia Lepida was married to G. Cassius Longinus. Their granddaughter was Domitia Longina, first the wife of Aelius Lamia and now the wife of Domitian, and the reason Calpurnius had plotted to kill Domitian fifteen years ago. Longina’s daughter, Canthara/Plautia—a direct, but unsuspecting, descendant of the deified Augustus—was the woman I was planning to meet in Naples in the morning.
What did I expect her to do? She knew nothing of her true ancestry, and I had no intention of telling her. She would never admit, I knew, to any involvement in blackmailing Calpurnius or killing his servant or trying to kidnap his wife. I was certain she was an accomplice—probably the instigator—in all those acts, as well as being behind the attack on Tacitus and me. But I couldn’t prove anything against her. And until I could, Calpurnius and his family would never be safe.
†
Tacitus was awake the next morning but in no condition to bestir himself. His limbs felt weak, he said, and his head ached. Sitting up to use a chamber pot was the most vigorous activity he was capable of. I assured him that I had everything under control.
“That’s what a driver in the Circus Maximus will tell you,” he snorted, “when he’s really just hanging on for his life.” Having described my situation so succinctly yet vividly, he rolled over and was asleep again before I left the room.
The ride to Naples did prove uneventful. I was glad to have misjudged Capsius. Or perhaps, when one tactic failed, Canthara and Sychaeus switched to a different one. I could not let my guard down, though. The four armed servants riding with us made me feel somewhat more secure.
Naples was humming with building activity, reminding me of Virgil’s description of Carthage when Aeneas first sees it, with two important differences. In this case it was rebuilding activity, and I wasn’t covered with the cloud which Venus had dropped over her son to make him invisible. How useful that would be at times! But as Virgil said, men were wrestling stones into place, measuring lines for walls, and setting up gates. They weren’t quarrying stone from the earth, though. Their quarries were the buildings which had been most heavily damaged in the last couple of earthquakes.
With my servants stationed where they could see into the book shop and be seen from inside, Capsius led me in to where Plautia—I decided I’d better accustom myself to calling her that—was seated at a table, apparently checking a scroll for mistakes. Her feet were out of sight under the table. “My lady, this is Gaius Pliny.”
“Thank you, Capsius. Please leave us.” When the scribe was gone, she turned to me. “I understand that you might be interested in buying this building.”
That was it. No welcoming comment. No easing into the conversation. Her gruff manner fit her appearance. She was somewhat plump, with a round face. Her hair was dark, her skin pale, like someone who spent most of her time indoors. Even with her sitting down, I could tell that she was short. Her stubby fingers showed the calluses of a working woman but no ink stains. She had none of the aura one would expect of a descendant of the deified Augustus. But then Nero probably didn’t either. On his coins he looks like a bloated frog, with a growth on his throat. Even the most royal blood can get thinned out over the course of time. And what does “royal blood” mean anyway? In spite of their claim to be descended from Venus, the Julian family were nothing more than opportunistic adventurers who had seized power by defeating other, less opportunistic, adventurers. No one is born with an innate “majesty.” Augustus was so short, I’ve read, that he received people sitting down so they couldn’t accurately gauge his stature.
“I might be interested in buying it. What is your price?” I could be as blunt as she was.
“One hundred thousand sesterces.”
“That’s a reasonable price…if I were buying the nicest insula in Rome. My offer is sixty thousand.”
The woman shook her head. “That’s not acceptable.”
“Perhaps we could agree on a price if your mistress would come out and bargain with me instead of having a servant pretend to be her.”
The woman blinked her eyes, helpless, and looked over her shoulder. From a doorway behind her stepped a tall, elegant woman, the very embodiment of imperial dignity except for her misshapen foot and her limp. Her brown hair was swept up and piled in front in the current fashion, adding to the sense of her height.
“How did you know, Gaius Pliny?”
“First, she said ‘thank you’ to a servant. Then, her fingers have no ink stains on them. I’ve been told that you write alongside your scribes. There would have to be some traces of ink on your fingers.”
Plautia looked down at her hands, rubbed the tips of her fingers, and chuckled. “And I thought my foot would betray me. I can’t get these damned spots out.”
“I’m sorry, mistress,” the dark-haired girl said. “I tried. Really, I did. I did just what you told me.”
“It’s not your fault. Go on back to your work.” The girl hurried out of the shop. Plautia sat down in her place. “She cleans for me. I thought I might be able to avoid confronting you if I coached her carefully.”
“Why would you not want to confront me?” We faced one another like two gladiators in the arena, swords still not raised, circling and assessing one another to find an opening.
“I wanted to see if you could spot the fraud. If you couldn’t, I had no need to be worried about you.”
“What makes you think you have reason to be worried about me?”
“You’ve shown a great deal of interest in me these last few days. You’ve been asking questions all over Naples, inspecting my property. I don’t like it when people pry into my business.”
That felt like the first thrust, so I parried. “When they do pry, do you always set up ambushes for them?”
“Was that you who was attacked yesterday? I heard about it. Was anyone hurt?” The slight raise of her eyebrows was neither an admission nor a denial of her guilt.
“Yes. One of the servants with me was killed, and my friend Tacitus was gravely wounded.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Have they caught the men who did it?”
It was time to take the offensive. “I killed one at the scene. Novatus, commander of the watch, killed another. At least two others escaped.”
I could almost see her step back to reconsider her strategy. “Well, I’m sure the magistrates will catch them soon. But what is your interest in me and my business?”
“I’m trying to help my friends Calpurnius and Aurelia. Your name has come up and I’ve tried to learn why.” I decided to play the role of the retiarius, the gladiator who uses a fisherman’s net to snare his opponent, then spears him with a trident. His movements have to be more subtle until he has his opponent entangled.
“People talk about me because they’re envious of a woman who has been successful.”
“Especially one who has risen so far, so fast.�
��
“How much do you know about me?”
“As much as there is to know, Canthara.” And a bit more, which I’m not going to tell you.
She slapped her hand on the writing table. “Don’t call me by that slave name! I was emancipated and took on my former master’s name. It’s all legal. My name is Plautia.”
When your opponent becomes angry, you have to press your advantage. “Your former master must have been exceptionally generous when he freed you, if you were able to buy this place.”
“He said he wanted to be sure I was taken care of, but I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” She regained control of herself and sidestepped me neatly. “And you’re not here to talk about buying this building, are you? You just used that as a pretext to get in here.”
“You invited me to come and talk to you this morning.”
Plautia stood and drew herself up to her full height. “There’s no point in pursuing this any further. Good day, Gaius Pliny.” She turned toward the doorway behind her.
I cast my net and stopped her. “Did Sychaeus come back here after the ambush yesterday?”
“I haven’t seen him in several days,” she said without turning around. “He’s a free man now and answers to no one.”
“Are you saying it was his idea to kill Calpurnius’ servant woman Amalthea?”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
I tugged on my net, trying to throw her off-balance. “You know, you wasted the money you spent to buy his freedom. He isn’t your brother.”
With her back to me, I couldn’t gauge her initial reaction, except for a sharp intake of breath. By the time she turned to face me, she had composed herself.
“What are you talking about? Of course he’s my brother. Well, my half-brother, if you want to be precise.”
“How do you know that?”
Her brow furrowed. “It’s what we were told as we grew up. Our mother died soon after I was born. I never knew her, but others in the household told us about her.”
That was convenient, I thought. If the woman had lived, would she have been able to tell that her child had been switched with Longina’s? Would others have noticed a resemblance between Longina’s supposed child and the slave woman who was her real mother? Did Aelius resort to murder to protect his secret?
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Plautia demanded.
“I was…just realizing that you must have had a difficult life.”
She sneered, looking down at her crippled foot and back up at me. “Don’t waste any pity on me. Sychaeus watched out for me, like a brother. He was all I had. He is all I have.”
“And, from what I’ve heard, you were very angry when he was sold.”
“He wasn’t sold. He was traded for a horse, like he was an animal.” She could barely control the rage that the memory evoked.
“So you vowed to take revenge on Aelius and Calpurnius. But Domitian got Aelius first. That left only Calpurnius for you to deal with.” For some reason I felt we were being watched. I could not see anyone in the other room of the book shop or in the darkened room from which Plautia had emerged, but I had a definite sense that someone was there. I glanced over my shoulder to assure myself that my armed defenders were still in view.
“You’re talking rubbish,” Plautia said. “You have no proof of any of this.… Do you?” In a moment of doubt, she had lowered her shield and left herself vulnerable.
“Yes, I do.”
The shield went back up. “Then let me see it, at once. I won’t believe a word of what you’ve said until I’ve seen your so-called proof.”
Now I could imagine myself standing before an emperor. Her chin was lifted and set, her eyes drilling into me. Augustus, so I’ve read, was proud of his ability to hold people with his gaze. Could a trait such as that be inherited?
“I’m not going to show you anything until I know who is threatening Calpurnius and his family.”
“Then we have nothing more to discuss. I’m sorry your trip up here was a waste of time—for both of us.”
“I do want to know one thing, which you can tell me without admitting to any wrong-doing. You were emancipated six years ago. Why did you wait so long to purchase Sychaeus’ freedom?”
“I couldn’t purchase him from Calpurnius without arousing suspicion. He knows Sychaeus has a sister.”
“He actually didn’t know until two days ago.”
“How could he not know? I wrote letters to Sychaeus.”
“Others in the house knew, but not Calplurnius.”
“Well, I thought he must know, so I had to wait until Sychaeus had been sold to another house.”
“How could you be sure that would happen?”
“Sychaeus made himself obnoxious so that Calpurnius would be eager to sell him.”
“From what I’ve heard of him, that didn’t take much effort on his part.”
Plautia took a limping step toward me. “Have you ever been a slave, Gaius Pliny? Don’t even bother to answer. Until you have been, you have no idea what a horrible thing it is, no matter how kind and indulgent your master may be.”
Was that how Aurora felt? I wondered. I tried to go back on the attack. “You also needed someone in Calpurnius’ house, didn’t you? To keep an eye on things once you started blackmailing him.”
“You may interpret my actions any way you like. I have nothing further to say to you. I hope you have a safe journey home.”
I couldn’t miss the sarcasm in her last statement. Or was it a threat?
XX
Gaius Pliny, I want to see my husband.” Aurelia voiced her demand quietly, but the determination in her tone could not be missed. “I must know that he’s all right, and I have to talk to him about…all of this.”
The morning had begun well. Tacitus was up and around again, with only slight discomfort where the poisoned dart had pierced his leg—hardly more troublesome than an insect bite, as he described it. As we sat in the garden he was telling me how he now adored Bastet with all the fervor of a devotee of Isis or Cybele.
The funeral pyre had burned itself out. When it cooled later today, the ashes would be collected. Amalthea and Antullus would have to share an urn, but we would inscribe both names on the stone. Bastet had left to tend to Calpurnius, and the entire household seemed more relaxed with her gone. Her absence may have been what prompted Aurelia to raise the issue of seeing her husband.
“I don’t think that’s advisable,” I told her. “I’m sure Bastet would tell you that travel at this stage of your pregnancy could be dangerous.”
“I have to see him, Gaius Pliny. I have to forgive him for the mess he’s gotten us into and let him know that I still love him. I’ll have an easier time in the birth if my mind is at ease about Calpurnius. Please take me out there.”
If her own safety didn’t matter to her, I had to find another argument. “It could be dangerous for Calpurnius. Someone—probably in this household—is aware of your movements and could threaten Calpurnius if they find out where he is.”
She folded her arms and rested them on her belly. “If you don’t take me out there, I will get on a horse and go by myself.”
“Aurelia, please don’t—”
“I swear to you, Gaius Pliny, I’ll do it.” She turned and started walking away.
“Are you going to let her become the first woman to give birth on horseback?” Tacitus said. “Or do you want her to do it on the side of the road, like Virgil’s mother?”
I shook my head. “I guess we’ll have to take her in the raeda. We’ll tell the driver to go as slowly as possible so we don’t jostle her too badly.”
“Just be ready to catch the baby when it comes.”
†
It took almost an hour to get the raeda hooked up and enough cushions arranged to soften the ride for Aurelia. Bastet had taken some food with her, but Aurelia insisted on taking more. As we were getting into the carriage Philippa asked, “Will you take me wi
th you, sir? I know that place as well as anybody, and I can help with the horses.”
“The child’s right,” Tacitus said. “We need one person to stay with the raeda and one to stand watch for us at the entrance.”
“Very well,” I said. “Ride with the driver.” Now that she was bathing regularly and had clean clothes to wear, I wouldn’t have minded having Philippa in the raeda with us, but I knew she would get more pleasure out of watching the horses and I wasn’t sure she was old enough to be present at a birth, if worse did come to worst.
“How are you doing?” I asked Aurelia as we bounced along.
“I feel fine,” she said. “Please don’t worry about me. This is what I need to do.”
Aurelia closed her eyes and lay back on the cushions. As I watched her I couldn’t help but be in awe of her devotion to her husband, a man she hadn’t even known a year ago. Would my bride-to-be develop such feelings for me? Could I return them? Marriages do turn out happily for many people. Tacitus dotes on his Julia, for all his jokes about her flightiness. My mother still mourns the loss of my father, after all these years. But, I reminded myself, my uncle never married and was content with the love of a slave woman. Could that woman’s daughter play the same role in my life?
When the raeda came to a halt Tacitus and I got out and looked to see if anyone had followed us. Even as we climbed up on the banks of ash on each side of the road, though, I wondered if we were wasting our time. There were so many places a person could hide. If his tunic was the right dingy shade, he would blend in with the bleak landscape, no more noticeable than the pile of ash he was hiding behind.
“I don’t see anyone,” Tacitus said. “Do you?”
“No. Still, let’s get Aurelia down into the tunnel before someone spots us.”
Aurelia inhaled sharply and clutched her belly as we helped her out of the raeda. “I’m all right,” she said, but I wasn’t convinced.
Leaving Philippa on guard near the entrance, we walked single-file down the tunnel. Tacitus, in the lead, and I, behind Aurelia, carried torches. With some light, such as it was, and with my attention focused on Aurelia, I was able to squelch my fear of the narrow place for a few moments.
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