“It’s a pleasure, sir. Your uncle was as fine a gentleman as ever I’ve knowed.”
I nodded to acknowledge the compliment. “I came across Delius’ name in some old letters recently and wondered what had become of him.”
“He robbed us and run away. That’s what become of him.”
“When was this?”
“Twenty year or so ago. He worked here for three years. One night he took three pounds of gold that we was supposed to make into jewelry and that was the last we seen of him for almost a year. We had to make good on the loss ourselves. It right near ruined us.”
“You reported him to the magistrates, I’m sure.”
“Of course. We even told them where we thought he was going.”
“Where was that?”
“North. He was mad in love with a girl on the estate of a man named Caecilius.”
The only way I could suppress my shock at hearing my father’s name was by asking another question. “Do you by any chance remember her name?”
“It were something Greekish. Had to do with horses.”
“Xanthippe?”
“No, sir.”
“Leucippe?”
“Yes, sir. That’s it.”
“You said ‘we.’ Was this your shop then?”
“No, sir. It were my father’s. I was learning the trade. Delius and me was almost the same age. My father meant for us to work together and increase the size of the shop.”
“What sort of man was Delius?”
“A difficult one, sir. He seemed to resent that he had to work at all. But the odd thing is, he were pretty good at it. He could carve anything. He even made teeth for people what had lost their own. Give him a piece of ivory and he could carve you a tooth that you’d never know warn’t the real thing. He had an artist’s eye. In fact, your uncle come in and had him design and cast a signet ring. We told him my father could do a better job, but your uncle insisted that Delius do it.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. First my father’s name, now my uncle’s. “A signet ring?”
“Yes, sir. It had a dolphin in the center and your uncle’s name around it.” He made a circle in the air with his index finger.
I held out my right hand with the signet ring up. “This ring?”
“May I, sir?” He drew my hand up closer to his face. “I do believe so, sir.”
“Why aren’t you certain? He didn’t make another one like it, did he?”
“No, sir. But he was a vain fella. He liked to sign the things he made.”
I pulled the ring off and looked at the inside of it.
“It reads DEL, don’t it, sir?”
The letters were worn but still legible. “I’ve always thought that meant Delphinus, although I’ve never understand why someone would write that on it.”
“No, sir. It means Delius. That was his mark.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s still in these parts, sir. He come back after a year or so and repaid what he had stolen, plus interest. We still had people asking for him to do work, so he comes in from time to time and does a piece or two for us.”
“Where would I find him?”
“You don’t. He finds you.”
VI
The less we deserve good fortune, the more we hope for it.
—Seneca
All the way back to the inn I mulled over what the goldsmith had told me. The signet ring I had been wearing since my uncle’s death was made by his illegitimate son, my bastard cousin. I ran a finger over the dolphin again.
Even more startling was the news that Delius had disappeared while apparently on his way to my father’s house to meet one of my father’s servant girls and while carrying a significant amount of stolen gold. Then he had reappeared and restored what he had stolen. Nereus was now married to Leucippe, the girl Delius was apparently going to see. Could she tell me more about Delius and what happened to the man in the wall than Nereus did?
The streets were busy now. I looked around whenever I turned a corner to see if anyone was following me, but the crowds made it impossible to pick out any one individual. I tried to dismiss the feeling as an unreasonable suspicion arising out of events and situations I had been involved in over the past few years.
When I arrived at the inn Tacitus noticed the small bag I was carrying. “So you did buy something. I never actually thought—”
“It’s for my mother. Her birthday really is next month.”
“Oh. Well, we have a few hours to while away before we see your friend Romatius. What do you propose?”
“Let’s go out and take a look at a temple my father began to build shortly before his death. When I suggested finishing it, my mother became upset and asked me to drop the idea.”
“You know she doesn’t like you spending money.”
“I felt there was more to it than that. Before I pursue the matter any further, I want to see the site, to get a sense of how much would have to be done.”
We rode, rather than walked, out to the temple just because it was on the other side of town from where we were staying. Someone coming from the east side of town—the more heavily populated part of Comum—could walk to the site in just a few moments.
“Why do you keep looking over your shoulder?” Tacitus finally asked me.
“I had the feeling earlier that someone was following me. I suppose it’s nothing.”
“When a skeleton falls out of your wall, it can set your nerves on edge, but I don’t see anybody.”
“We’re here now anyway,” I said as we rounded a bend in the road.
We dismounted and approached the site, overgrown with bushes and small trees. The foundation of the building, the main floor, and a few courses of stone for the walls showed that it would be substantial if completed. Pieces of finished stone were piled around the building. It reminded me of the temple of Zeus in the forum in Pompeii, which had been destroyed in the earthquake seventeen years before Vesuvius erupted—the year in which I was born—and sat in that state until the city was obliterated. I have heard people argue that, if the city had rebuilt the temple promptly, the gods would have protected them from the volcano. My reaction to such reasoning is that, if the gods wanted the temple rebuilt, they could have provided the money, and done it more easily than causing a volcano to erupt, killing thousands.
I climbed the steps of my father’s temple and walked around the floor. One pile of stones sitting off to the side consisted of pieces that had been carved with decorative motifs and the inscription that would go over the front.
“To judge from those tracks,” Tacitus said, pointing to a path leading off to the north, “somebody has been helping themselves to some of your stone.”
“At least they haven’t taken the pieces that were carved.”
“They would be too easy to identify.” He mounted the steps and began pacing off the dimensions of the building.
I knelt beside the stones that had been inscribed with the names of Rome and Augustus, for whom the temple was being built. That’s when I noticed, in smaller letters on one of the blocks, in the name of caecilia. Had my father intended for this temple to commemorate my sister, who died soon after birth, as well as to honor the princeps? Then why hadn’t he finished it? Why didn’t my mother want me to finish it?
“I’m going to see what’s under the floor,” Tacitus said.
I followed him down the steps and into a doorway that led to storage rooms under the temple. The door itself had been removed. Small animals scurried away from us in the dark.
“I can’t tell much without a torch,” Tacitus said, “but it doesn’t look like anyone has taken up residence down here.”
As we emerged from the doorway Tacitus glanced at the position of the sun, almost overhead. “By the time we get back and stable our horses, it’ll be time for the market to close. Your friend Romatius ought to be just about finished for the day. Perhaps we can buy him some lunch, with plenty of wine to loo
sen his tongue.”
“Just be sure it doesn’t loosen yours,” I reminded him as we mounted our horses for the trip back to the inn. Tacitus has a well-deserved reputation for his eloquence, but, by his fourth cup, even with the wine well diluted, he can become more loquacious than eloquent.
* * *
Like any Roman town, Comum was slowing down after a busy morning as we left our horses at the stable and set out for the forum. Some of the shopkeepers had already taken their wares in off the sidewalks and shuttered their doors. With Nereus carrying the bag containing our bathing supplies, we came to an intersection and used the stepping stones to cross to the other side. As we turned toward the forum, a group of children ran in our direction, rolling a large iron hoop, no doubt taken off a broken wagon wheel.
“You were quite good at that game, my lord,” Nereus said, “when you were a boy. You and that girl who was always with you. Still is always with you.”
Tacitus laughed and tousled my hair. Chagrined, I jerked away from him.
“It’s more challenging when you play the game in a city street,” I said. “You have to maneuver the thing between the stepping stones and around the muck if you can. If it falls, another player gets a turn. When I played on one of our estates, the main challenge was to keep up with the hoop. On an open road it can get up quite a bit of speed.”
In spite of the embarrassment of being reminded of my childhood in front of Tacitus, I smiled because I could see myself running after a hoop with Aurora on the estate at Laurentum. It had gotten away from us and rolled over the cliff. As we were climbing down to the beach to retrieve it, we came upon the opening to a cave, and that was where we found the Tyche ring. I put my hand on my chest, touching the ring which hung, under my tunic, on a leather strap around my neck. How much simpler everything was then! The misfortune of losing the hoop had turned into the good fortune of finding the ring—and of giving Aurora a childish first kiss.
We turned another corner and could see the forum ahead of us. The town’s market opened onto the street we were walking on, and the morning’s last customers were emerging from the market, carrying their purchases. They looked behind them at an eruption of angry voices, then had to step out of the way when a man stumbled through the entrance, as though he had been pushed.
“That’s the last I want to see of you here!” a familiar voice said from inside the doorway. My friend Romatius stepped into the light to give the man one more shove, knocking him down on the street. He opened a bag that he carried in one hand and ran his fingers through the small lead weights it contained.
“You’ve no right to treat me like this,” the man said, scrambling to his knees.
“If you bring dishonest weights into my market,” Romatius said, “it is my duty to treat you like this.” He swung the bag, striking the man across the face. “And it’ll go much worse for you if you come back again, you thieving scoundrel.”
The man got to his feet, holding his hands to his bleeding nose, and hurried past us. When Romatius turned to follow his progress, he noticed us. He tossed the bag to a servant.
“Gaius Pliny, what a delight to see you!” He began walking toward us, his arms extended in greeting.
I stepped forward to meet him. Romatius, although he is my age, has never cared as much for physical activity as he has for a good meal, so he is quite a bit heavier than I am. He also has the misfortune of being one of those men who begins to lose his hair at an early age. But he is a convivial soul.
“I see you’re ever the conscientious magistrate,” I said as we embraced.
“That rascal comes from a village south of here,” Romatius said. “Since I hadn’t seen him before, I decided to check his weights. I’m just sorry I was too busy to do it earlier.” He stepped back and held me at arms’ length. “I was delighted to receive your message about meeting. But what brings you back home, my friend?”
“My mother felt she had been away too long. And my wife’s family is from around here as well.”
Romatius’ jaw dropped in shock. “Gaius Pliny! You’re married? Who is she? When did this happen?”
“We were married six months ago. She is Livia, the daughter of Pompeia Celerina.”
“The older daughter or the younger?” He cocked his head as though waiting for a very important answer.
“The older.”
Romatius’ shoulders and voice dropped as if he’d been told that someone had died. “Oh, Gaius—”
“You can offer condolences,” Tacitus said. “My wife and I do, every time we see Gaius.”
Romatius gave me a consolatory embrace and a pat on the back. “I’m so sorry.”
I pulled away from him and turned to Tacitus. “Let me introduce my sardonic friend, Cornelius Tacitus.”
“Not the Cornelius Tacitus? Sir, it is an honor.” Romatius shook Tacitus’ hand warmly and bowed his head. “Even in this benighted corner of the world we’ve heard of Cornelius Tacitus. Will we have a chance to hear you speak while you’re here?”
“Perhaps we can arrange something,” I said. I know that Tacitus is rapidly gaining a reputation for his oratory in the courts in Rome, but I didn’t realize his fame had spread this far.
“That gives me something to look forward to.” Romatius smiled broadly. “Now, may I buy you gentlemen some lunch?”
“That gives me something to look forward to,” Tacitus said.
“There is an excellent taberna around the corner there,” Romatius said. “It’s not much to look at, but the owner has a little farm just outside of town, so the food couldn’t be any fresher if, well, if the chickens laid the eggs right on your plate.”
I found that image less appetizing than Romatius apparently did.
“The owner’s name is Lutulla,” he said in a slightly rhapsodic tone. “Do you know her?”
“Should I?”
Romatius hesitated. “No, perhaps not. I just thought you might have… Well, never mind.”
I let him lead us to the taberna, where he was greeted as though he was part of the family. Our servants were seated inside and we were given one of the tables in a courtyard behind the building which was formed by the walls of the neighboring buildings. Bread, wine, and cheese appeared in front of us. Tacitus ran his glance over the serving girl, as he always does, but she kept her eyes down. Before taking his seat, Romatius talked with the owner. The conversation seemed to involve a lot of nodding and glancing in our direction.
I studied the petite blond woman for a moment, since Romatius seemed to think I should know her. Nothing about her seemed familiar. She was one of those women whose beauty had faded a bit but still defied the years. I suspected she might be about my mother’s age, and yet her figure and the lack of lines on her face made me doubt my own judgment.
Waiting for Romatius, I took in the courtyard, which was about ten paces by twenty. In the center of it stood a rectangular fountain graced by a bronze statue of a little girl holding a bucket under the spout where the water flowed out. My attention was drawn back to Romatius and the owner when a dark-haired young man came out of the building and said something to them. That seemed the signal for the conversation to end as Lutulla followed the young man back inside.
“She prepares a chicken,” Romatius said when he joined us, “with a special blend of herbs and spices that no one has yet duplicated. I’ve offered her a considerable sum for the secret, but she keeps the recipe in her head. She claims she’s never written it down.”
“That’s the best way to keep a secret,” Tacitus said. “As Socrates says in the Phaedrus, once you write something down, it can speak to anyone. You lose control of it.”
The mention of secrets so soon in the conversation unsettled me. I had hoped to work around to the topic, not charge at it in a frontal assault. I had already slammed head-on into one secret today. “So, are you married yet, Romatius?” I asked.
My friend shook his head. “Not yet. There’s plenty of time before I have to submit to the
harness. I’m still enjoying a romp in the pasture, so to speak.”
Tacitus laughed. “Lots of mares and fillies around Comum?”
“Exactly. In fact, I’m planning to meet one as soon as we finish eating.”
“Ovid and Corinna, midday?” Tacitus said, arching an eyebrow.
“My very exemplars.” Romatius beamed broadly. “‘May such afternoons often come for me’ is my motto.”
“How is your father?” I asked, in an effort to wrest the conversation back to where we might gain some useful information from it.
“He’s quite feeble, I’m sorry to say. He keeps to his bed and his mind wanders. He seems to be in the past most of the time.”
“That is sad news. But for some of us those were happier days.” Certainly for me, days before I was married to Livia.
“I’m not sure they were for my father. He often seems troubled.”
We went on to talk about various people Romatius and I had grown up with. As we talked we enjoyed a chicken, served by a buxom young woman, that exceeded even Romatius’ hyperbole about it. The wine was a full-bodied Falernian. My uncle used to say, about a wine so rich, that it would catch fire if put too close to a flame. I worried about whether Tacitus was going to ignite.
When Romatius appeared to be getting eager to go romp in somebody’s meadow, I decided to broach the topic of missing people. Before I did, though, I looked around at the other guests, wishing they weren’t there. I could keep my voice down, but Romatius seemed incapable of doing so. The amount of wine he had drunk was no help in that regard.
“Coming back here,” I said, “has reminded me that my wife’s father disappeared about twenty years ago.” It felt like a natural enough transition to the topic.
“Yes,” Romatius said. “I’ve heard the story. Drowned, didn’t he? And they never found the body.”
“That’s right. Hearing my wife and mother-in-law talking about it got me to wondering if there are any records of anyone else who might have disappeared around that time.”
Romatius blinked, suddenly looking more cautious, more sober. “Why…why would you ask that?”
“Call it my accursed curiosity.”
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