Fortune's Fool

by Albert A. Bell

  “That’s not the most distressing part of it,” Gaius’ mother said. “What if it is your husband?”

  Plinia spoke even more softly than she usually does. I took a step closer to the opening into the latrina, so I could hear her better.

  “It can’t be, my dear,” Pompeia said. “Poor Livius drowned when that storm capsized his boat. They found his tunic, but they never found his body.”

  “Are you sure it was his tunic?”

  “Of course. I recognized the stitching. It was the way my girls did it.”

  “But why just his tunic?”

  “I’m sure he pulled that and his sandals off so he’d have a better chance of swimming to shore. All that wool soaks up water like a sponge. There’s no way Livius could be the man in the wall. I assume his bones are out there at the bottom of Lake Comum. The discovery of these bones is just a coincidence.”

  “But Gaius says there’s no such thing as coincidence. And Livius disappeared at the time the workmen were finishing the wall. The storm even delayed them.”

  “With all due respect to my clever son-in-law, it has to be a coincidence. Why would we be told that Livius drowned when he was stuffed into a wall? Whoever put that poor man in there murdered him. Nobody had any reason to kill my husband.”

  Now I was puzzled. The names of the two girls, Livia and Livilla, mean both of them had a father named Livius. But Livilla is only sixteen. A man who died twenty years ago couldn’t be her father.

  I could tell from the rustling sounds that the women were just about finished, so I stepped back farther in the entryway.

  “Well, well,” a voice behind me said. “I see Gaius has you spying for him now.”

  I knew immediately that it was Livia. I couldn’t do anything but turn to face her.

  “I was just waiting to use the latrina, my lady. Your mother and your mother-in-law are in there. I wanted to give them some privacy.”

  “That’s not what I saw,” Livia said. “You were edging closer and closer so you could eavesdrop.” She grabbed my arm and dragged me out into the garden.

  “Please, my lady. I—”

  She slapped me hard on the cheek. I didn’t give her the satisfaction of putting my hand on the spot. It was all I could do not to hit her back.

  “I guess you can report that to him, too, you brown-skinned whore.” Anger narrowed her beady eyes and drew her lip into a snarl. “Someday I’ll find a reason to have you strung up and whipped. And don’t think I wouldn’t do it.”

  I wouldn’t have minded. If she did something like that, I could endure it because I knew Gaius would divorce her in an instant. If I even told him that she slapped me…

  Livia unpinned the brooch that she always wears. It’s oval, with a large blue stone surrounded by a gold filigree. It has a long, nasty pin on it. I couldn’t believe she was going to stab me with the thing, but that clearly was what she intended to do. I crossed my hands over my belly to protect my child.

  “Oh, Livia dear, there you are,” Pompeia said behind me as she and Plinia emerged from the latrina. Livia pinned the brooch back in its usual place and pushed me away from her. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Julia coming across the garden toward us. An ally!

  “Is everything all right, dear?” Pompeia asked Livia.

  “Of course, Mother. How could it not be? I’m surrounded by my loving mother and my loving husband and his loving servant. How could everything not be all right?” Livia stalked into the latrina. Plinia looked at my cheek but said nothing and the two older women headed for the kitchen.

  I really needed to relieve myself, but now I would have to wait a bit longer or find a chamber pot. If I dared to go in there with Livia, I was afraid she might try to drown me.

  “Are you all right?” Julia asked as she reached my side.

  I nodded.

  “Did I see Livia slap you?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll have to tell Gaius—”

  “No! That’s the last thing we can do. If she found out I told him, she’d just look for more reasons to make my life miserable.”

  “If that’s what you want… Come here. Let’s sit down.”

  “No, I need to relieve myself. I have a feeling Livia will take her own sweet time in there. Let’s go to my room. I’ll use the chamber pot.” I set off at a quick pace.

  While I got the chamber pot from under the bed and stepped to the far corner of the room, I asked Julia, “Do you know anything about Livia’s father drowning?”

  “Gaius didn’t tell you?”

  “No. He doesn’t seem to tell me much of anything these days.” I lifted my gown.

  Julia sat on the bed, facing away from me. Her voice brightened the way it always does when she’s about to impart some juicy gossip. “Well, you know Tacitus loves history. He says I like to gossip too much, but he does the same thing and just calls it history. He told me that Pompeia married a man named Marcus Livius, the younger of two brothers. His family is from around here—sturdy equestrian stock, like Pliny and Tacitus. But the poor man drowned, right here in Lake Comum, let’s see, it would’ve been—”

  “Twenty years ago.”

  “Why, yes, that’s right. How did you know?”

  “That’s what Pompeia and Plinia were talking about in the latrina. So he was Livia’s father. But how did Livilla get her name?”

  “Because Pompeia then married the older of the two brothers, Quintus Livius.”

  “She married her brother-in-law? Was there something going on between them?” It was revolting to think of Pompeia having an affair.

  Julia waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing as interesting as that. In this case it was a matter of keeping property in the family. And there is a lot of property in that family. Pompeia and her daughters have inherited all of it, from both brothers.”

  “So Livilla and Livia are only half-sisters.” Finishing with the chamber pot, I slipped it back under the bed, straightened my gown, and sat down beside Julia. “That explains a lot.”

  “More than you know. Everyone who sees them thinks of them as ‘the pretty one’ and ‘that other one.’ I have to feel some sympathy for Livia. Her own mother treats her like some unloved stepchild.”

  “I might be more sympathetic if I weren’t so afraid of her.”

  Julia turned to me in surprise. “Surely you don’t think—”

  “I don’t think she’ll stop with just slapping me.”

  * * *

  My uncle used to say that, viewed from high enough in the mountains on its western side, Lake Comum looks like the legs and body of a running man, without the head and arms. The town of Comum sits at the foot of the front leg, with my villa just above the bend that resembles the knee. The back leg is stretched out straight.

  “That’s the house of my friend Caninius Rufus,” I said, as our horses trotted past a large villa in the bend of the knee, about two hours into our journey. “He’s a poet.”

  “I’ve not heard the name,” Tacitus said. “What has he published?”

  “Actually, nothing. Although he’s a good writer, he revises a lot but never seems to finish anything, in spite of my urgings.”

  “Oh, one of those. From the look of his place I’d say he’s rather prosperous. I guess he doesn’t depend on his writing for his livelihood.”

  “No, he’s no Virgil or Horace, with a wealthy patron behind him. He received a substantial inheritance. He has no political ambitions, though. He just wants to write.”

  “Do you think he would put down his pen long enough to greet some unexpected guests?” Tacitus said. “I need to relieve myself, and I could use a drink.”

  “I’m sure he would. He wants to pump me for information about the eruption of Vesuvius.”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t stop then. I know how much you hate talking about that.”

  “Not as much as I would hate having you piss all over one of my horses.” We turned onto the lane leading to Caninius’ house. “We can’t st
ay long, though, if we’re going to reach Comum before dark.”

  Caninius did give us a gracious welcome. We drank and chatted for about an hour, as long as we could afford. I apologized for the abruptness of our visit, promising to write more about Vesuvius, and he seemed to understand. As we were leaving, he handed me a copy of some of his latest poems. “I would appreciate any criticism you might have time to give me,” he said.

  I passed the small scroll to Nereus to place in the bag he was carrying with a change of clothes for us. “By all means. You’ll have to come to dinner soon so we can talk about them.”

  “Yes, let’s do that. Let me know when it’s convenient for you.”

  As we rode back to the main road, Tacitus said, “Nice fellow.”

  I gave the house one last glance over my shoulder. “Some days I envy him.”

  “Pssht. Gaius Pliny, I don’t think you could ever be content with the life of a provincial dilettante.”

  “‘Dilettante’ is too harsh a word. Caninius is a fine poet. He knows what he wants and is willing to sacrifice a public career to achieve it. I don’t suppose I could do that. My uncle and my tutors taught me to value public service. But they couldn’t foresee how…difficult that might become.”

  “In certain circumstances and at certain times, yes.”

  We both knew we couldn’t say any more. One breath of criticism whispered against Domitian—even in the presence of not one but three trusted servants—and we might suffer a fate like that of the poor soul in the wall of my house. But the reason for his murder surely couldn’t have been political. Comum is a long way from the intrigues of the capital. Twenty years ago Nero was princeps. It was late in his reign, but the revolts that led to his overthrow hadn’t broken out yet.

  Besides, hiding a body in a wall didn’t have the imperial flair about it. An enemy of the princeps was more likely to be spirited away to some island and never heard from again. Poison was Nero’s preferred method of eliminating his enemies. This crime displayed all the marks of an amateur, an opportunist. The weapon—probably a rock—was what happened to be at hand. The hiding place for the body couldn’t have been planned far in advance. The only evidence of any planning was the removal of the victim’s clothing and any identifying jewelry—although that might have been an afterthought born of panic.

  Then a question leapt unbidden into my mind: what if the blow to the mouth, just one blow, was designed to obliterate some distinctive feature? We’ve been assuming that the person was struck in the mouth first, then on the head. But the order could have been reversed. I would have to take another, much closer look at the skull when we returned. And I would have to thank Naomi for the fact that we hadn’t already placed the bones on a pyre. I wondered how many crimes went unpunished—unnoticed, even—because we Romans are so anxious to dispose of the bodies of our dead.

  Maybe that’s why our primitive ancestors instituted the practice. Some acorn-belching Lucius killed some equally flatulent Gaius and realized that his best chance to cover up the deed was to burn the evidence, so he said the gods expected it. How convenient the gods sometimes are.

  As we rounded a bend in the road we got our first view of Comum and I brought my attention back to the matter at hand.

  “Remember,” I said to Tacitus and the servants, “we’re not to say anything specific about what we’ve found. We’re just going to ask a few general questions about anyone—male or female—who might have gone missing twenty years ago. If somebody does know who killed our victim, we don’t want to alert them.”

  “What office does your friend Romatius hold?” Tacitus asked as we rode up to the point on the outskirts of town where we would have to leave our horses.

  “He’s an aedile.”

  “What are his duties? Public works? Games?”

  “Nothing so glamorous. He’s one of those who oversee the markets.”

  “A bean-counter, eh?”

  Once we had stabled our horses we entered the north gate—or the archway where the north gate had once hung. With no worries about defending themselves, the people of the town had removed the inconvenience of an actual gate years ago. I could not remember seeing it hanging in place, even in my childhood. We found lodging just inside the gate, and I sent Nereus to Romatius’ house—on the east side of town—to ask if we could see him the next day. Romatius replied to my message with an invitation to meet him at the market at noon.

  The town we call Comum is, technically, Novum Comum. The original town—just a village which can still be seen—clung to the hills beside the lake for defensive reasons. Almost a hundred and fifty years ago, with this area pacified, Julius Caesar moved the town to the lower end of the lake and laid out, on a proper grid of streets, a new, regular Roman municipium, with a forum, a market, baths, and all the other amenities of civilization. This new Comum was originally encircled by walls, but had long since outgrown them. Now their primary function was to provide solid support for the houses and public buildings springing out beside them like the large mushrooms that sprout from tree trunks.

  * * *

  The next morning I had already eaten something by the time Tacitus and our servants gathered in the dining room of our inn. “While you’re eating,” I said, “there’s someone here in town I want to talk to.”

  “Go right ahead,” Tacitus mumbled, still not fully awake. Then he had a second thought. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  To his obvious relief, I shook my head. “This is a personal matter.”

  When he heard me asking the innkeeper for directions to a goldsmith’s shop—the only one in town, it turned out—Tacitus acted puzzled. “Are you going to have some jewelry made for Livia?”

  Neither of us could laugh at his joke in front of the servants. “No. My mother’s birthday is coming up. I’ll be back shortly.” I turned toward the door.

  “Aren’t you going to take someone with you?” he called after me.

  “It’s not far. And I’m not entirely alone.” I patted the short sword I’ve become accustomed to wearing under my tunic over the last couple of years. It’s a bit cumbersome, but it has proved useful on several occasions.

  On my way to the goldsmith’s shop I took some lightly traveled streets so I could pass a few spots I had known as a boy. My childhood had been spent in various places—part of it going to school here after my father died; part under the tutelage of a family friend, Verginius Rufus; and part living with my uncle, sometimes near Comum, sometimes on one of his other estates. My mother had been the only constant presence in my upbringing. My mother and Aurora, I immediately corrected myself.

  Now someone else was near me, I realized as I crossed a street. And I thought they had been there for several blocks. It hadn’t rained in a while, so the muck of garbage and waste in the streets was thick. The stepping stones in the middle and at the end of each block were a necessity. Picking my way over them, I caught a movement to my left and behind me. When I glanced over my shoulder, I thought I saw someone step into a doorway. Turning a corner, I flattened myself against the wall and placed a hand on my sword.

  When I had waited long enough for anyone following me to turn the corner, I stepped around it, prepared to draw my sword…and ran into two women, carrying their purchases from the market. Excusing myself, I surveyed the street. Except for the three of us and a few women at the next corner, it was empty. Had I been deluding myself? Perhaps my tunic’s equestrian stripe, probably a rare sight in this part of town at this time of day, had made someone weigh the risks of a robbery. Tacitus was right. I should have taken a servant or two with me.

  It was only two more blocks to the goldsmith’s shop, and I didn’t see anyone else who aroused my suspicion before I arrived. Traffic was beginning to pick up as the earliest risers—like myself—returned from the market and the second wave—Tacitus’ lazy cohort, content with less selection—made their way to it.

  The goldsmith’s shop occupied a corner on the street level of an in
sula that stood three stories tall, a large building for a town the size of Comum. I inherited two of these apartment buildings in Rome from my uncle and have considered selling them every time I have to repair something—which is practically every month. The only way to make a profit off such properties is to let the tenants live in squalor, which my uncle was willing to do but I am not.

  “Good morning, sir,” the goldsmith said when I stepped inside. “What may I do for you?”

  He was an affable-looking fellow of about forty, with thinning blond hair and carrying burn scars on his hands and one on the left side of his face, perhaps indicating that he was a bit clumsy at his trade. I hadn’t started out with the intention of buying anything, but I knew I would get more information from him if I did.

  “I’d like a…necklace. For my mother.”

  “For your mother. Of course, sir.” He managed to keep the smirk in his voice off his face. “Let me see what might be fittin’…for your mother.”

  He obviously thought I was a philandering husband sneaking off by himself to buy something for a mistress. He picked up a box, set it on a stool, and opened it. “Gold? Silver? What do you think she would like, sir?”

  I picked up a few pieces and examined them, settled on one, and haggled with him over the price. I let him get the better of me so I could move on to my real objective.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, a question or two, if I may.”

  He shrugged, acknowledging that I had bought the right to ask him something.

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Marcus Delius?”

  From the curl of his lip and the flaring of his nostrils, I thought about moving my hand closer to my sword.

  “Be you a friend of that scoundrel?”

  I thought, Even worse, he’s my cousin, but I shook my head quickly. “I’ve never met him. He was a freedman from my uncle’s house. I’m told he was apprenticed here but disappeared. I know it was a long time ago, but—”

  “Your uncle? You’re the nephew of Plinius Secundus?”

  “Yes, and the adopted son.”